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diff --git a/75383-h/75383-h.htm b/75383-h/75383-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c044f56 --- /dev/null +++ b/75383-h/75383-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9872 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The dangerous inheritance | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { + margin-left: 7.5%; + margin-right: 7.5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} +.ph2 {text-align: center; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;} +.ph3 {text-align: center; font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;} + +div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} +div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} + +.xxlarge {font-size: 200%;} +.xlarge {font-size: 150%;} +.large {font-size: 125%;} + +.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} +.poetry .indent3 {text-indent: 3em;} +.poetry .first {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .first2 {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 2.7em;} + +.antiqua { + font-family: Blackletter, Fraktur, Textur, "Old English Text MT", "Olde English Mt", + "Olde English", "Old English", "Engravers Old English BT", "Collins Old English", + "New Old English", Gothic, serif, sans-serif;} + +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; + padding: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75383 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>THE DANGEROUS INHERITANCE</h1> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="title page"></div> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="titlepage"> +<p><span class="xxlarge">THE DANGEROUS<br> +INHERITANCE</span></p> + +<p><span class="large">OR</span></p> + +<p><span class="xlarge">The Mystery of the Tittani Rubies</span></p> + +<p>BY<br> + +<span class="xlarge">IZOLA FORRESTER</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_titlelogo.jpg" alt="publisher's logo"></div> + +<p>BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br> +<span class="large">HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</span><br> + +<span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press Cambridge</span><br> + +1920</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1919 AND 1920, BY THE NEW IDEA PUBLISHING COMPANY<br> +COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY IZOLA FORRESTER PAGE<br> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph3">THE DANGEROUS INHERITANCE</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> +<p class="ph2">THE<br> +DANGEROUS INHERITANCE</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/dots.jpg" alt=""></div> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> town studio of Signor Jacobelli faced the +west. It was situated on the top floor of an old +eight-storied building in the West Fifties. +Thirty years ago this had been given over +entirely to studios, but now it was broken up +into a more profitable mêlée of semi-commercial +establishments and light-housekeeping +apartments.</p> + +<p>The signor, having no doubt the Old-World +propensity for permanency, had maintained +his studio here for over twenty years, without +regard for the changing conditions around him, +if indeed he were even conscious of them. His +own immediate outlook and environment had +remained the same. The view to the west and +south from the deep, double-sized windows +had varied little, and held a perpetual fascination +for him. Thin red chimneys in neighborly +groupings on adjacent roofs assumed delicate +color values of amethyst and quivering saffrons +from Jersey sunsets that turned even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> +the old buildings down towards the riverfront +into mystical genii palaces in the early +twilight.</p> + +<p>Dust lay unnoted upon bookshelves and +music-racks about the large, friendly room. +The Turkish rug that covered its floor had +long since lost all outline of pattern and was +as exquisite a blur as the rose-flushed sea mist +that hung over the lower end of the island +city.</p> + +<p>Carlota stood in a window recess, her back +to the signor and his unexpected guest, her +fingers tying and untying the faded purple +silk cord of the shade. From where he sat in +the old winged armchair by the piano, Ward +caught a perfect silhouette of her profile against +the glow of western light. Listening to Jacobelli’s +fiery protest in his usual silent way, his +mind dwelt upon the blossoming of this foreign +flower of girlhood who had so strangely +attracted him from the first time he had ever +looked into her eyes.</p> + +<p>The Marchese Veracci had called him up +from the Italian Club two years before, and +had besought his good offices for the granddaughter +of Margherita Paoli. The following +evening they had called on him by appointment. +He half closed his eyes, recalling the +picture of the girl as he had first seen her. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> +awaited him in the Florentine room. Even then +she had not thought of him, but had stood +before a painting of Sorrento, a view through +the ravine looking seaward, one hand laid on +her breast, her eyes filled with the yearning of +youth’s loneliness. She had met him silently, +her hand cold as it rested an instant in his +palm.</p> + +<p>And the old Marchese had pleaded her cause +with fervent eloquence.</p> + +<p>“I have Jacobelli’s word on her voice,” he +said. “What more would you? If you but +speak Guido Jacobelli’s name to any European +director, he bows to the old maestro’s +dictum.”</p> + +<p>“He has retired,” Ward returned.</p> + +<p>“Retired, yes, from the money mart.” The +Marchese had beamed upon the great international +banker almost tolerantly. “You cannot +comprehend his attitude. No amount of +money could tempt him to teach the tyro, the +climber, but he has heard Carlota. He knew +Paoli well in Italy. It was her influence and +friendship which first brought him fame and +power. Now he has said that her voice lives +again in the child, but there must be at least +four years of incessant application and training. +To keep her voice divine, she must never +be troubled by material cares. She must have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> +an abundance of everything that she needs +that her whole nature may relax and expand +to give her the freedom to devote her whole +life to her career.”</p> + +<p>Ward had understood. He knew Guido +Jacobelli. While the old maestro was a high +priest of art, his price for teaching genius was +in proportion to his faith. It had been Carlota’s +own attitude of indifference which had +dominated his decision. While the Marchese +had argued and pleaded for her future, and +Maria Roma, her guardian, had hung upon the +final word from Ward’s lips, she had listened +gravely, her attention wandering constantly +to the rare art treasures of the room. Once she +had met his eyes as he asked her a direct question.</p> + +<p>“You are very young to study seriously. Do +you realize the sacrifices you must make?”</p> + +<p>“I have always studied to be a singer, signor,” +Carlota had told him, her eyes even then +disconcerting in their wide intensity. “There +are no sacrifices when you love your vocation.”</p> + +<p>Ward had smiled back at the Marchese, +quoting lightly,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="verse">“I did renounce the world, its pride and greed</div> +<div class="indent3">... at eight years old.”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>“My dear,” he added, “one of your own<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> +countrymen has spoken so, Fra Lippo Lippi. +No parallel, though, eh, Veracci? Here we +have the consecration of genius. I will advance +fifty thousand. Is it enough?”</p> + +<p>Carlota had met his appraising eyes with +the aloof resentment of an influence that disturbed +her.</p> + +<p>“Speak, cara mia,” Maria Roma had cried, +tears streaming down her plump cheeks, as she +clasped her arms enthusiastically around her +charge. “Have you no word of thanks?”</p> + +<p>And Ward had never forgotten the flash of +challenge in the girl’s dark eyes as she had +given him her hand.</p> + +<p>“I will succeed and pay you back, signor,” +she had said. He might have been merely a +money-lender to a princess of the de’ Medici.</p> + +<p>He had made only one stipulation and that +half in jest, though Maria and the Marchese +had agreed most earnestly. She was not to +marry nor become entangled in love affairs +during the period of her tuition. The concession +had completely escaped Carlota’s attention. +She had wandered by them out into +the wide corridor, stifled by the somber silence +of the great closed rooms. Not a single fountain +falling in the distance, not a living flower +anywhere, nothing but age-old treasures in a +palatial, modern museum. He had not spoken<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> +to her again, only she had heard his last words +to Jacobelli.</p> + +<p>“May the fruit fulfill the promise. I will +come to see you now and then.”</p> + +<p>Through the two years of study he had kept +his word. Every few months, unawares, he +would come to the old studio and sit for a +while, listening to Jacobelli and watching his +pupil. Even while he never spoke a word of +direct intent to her, Carlota felt a vague uneasiness +in his presence, under the steady +power of his gaze. He carried with him the impression +of a compelling, dominant masterfulness, +all the more irresistible through its +silence and tireless patience. He was in the +late thirties at this time, tall and heavy-set, +his head, with its thick, close-cut blond hair, +thrust forward from a habit of silent intentness. +There was the strongest suggestion of +the leonine about him. Once, when she was a +child, Carlota remembered being taken to see +a captive Algerian lion that had just been +brought across for the royal zoo. With a city +mob surging forward to stare at him, the lion +had lain with an imperial languor and indifference, +gazing with unblinking eyes beyond +the crowd and the city, seeing only the desert +that held his whole life’s desire. Sometimes, in +the studio, during one of Ward’s visits, she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> +would catch his eyes fixed upon her, while +Jacobelli flamed out into some argument or +dissertation, and she would shrink from the +purpose that lay behind their patience.</p> + +<p>To-day the voice of Jacobelli filled the +studio, and Carlota’s delicate dark brows contracted +sharply as she listened.</p> + +<p>“What more can I do? I have given her all +that I know of technique and harmony, and +still her voice lacks that emotional quality +which the greatest alone possess. The divine +voice must have dramatic feeling, intensity. +It must lose itself in the grandest passion of +emotion. The child tries, but what would you? +She does not understand the lack in her own +nature. Her woman soul yet slumbers.”</p> + +<p>Ward glanced at him with amused, quizzical +eyes.</p> + +<p>“Let it sleep, Jacobelli. Remember Paoli +when she let love conquer her.”</p> + +<p>For the moment the old maestro forgot the +figure behind the window curtain. With arms +thrown upward he turned on the banker.</p> + +<p>“You know not anything about Paoli! I, +Jacobelli, tell you that! You cannot speak of +her with any understanding. She was a law to +herself in her own generation. Few women can +be that. But I, who know what lay behind the +wall of Tittani, say to you I would rather this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> +child lay dead now, with no fulfillment in her +life, than that she should know the agony and +failure as an artiste that her grandmother did +when she sacrificed her whole womanhood—for +what? Love, pouf!”</p> + +<p>“Can a woman’s nature reach its ripest +fulfillment without love?” Ward’s tone was +lowered. “History proves that the greatest +geniuses have been those who suffered most.”</p> + +<p>“But not the singer, signor.” Jacobelli +paused in his march up and down the studio. +“The singer is something different. It is instinctive. +I have heard the most marvelous +impassioned voices pour from the most commonplace +peasant types. I have heard the +greatest tenor of all times tear the emotions of +thousands to pieces, and step into his dressing-room +to rail at his wife for not providing his +favorite dish for him after the opera, ravioli +and lampreys. The most superb lyric voice of +to-day comes from a little, stout contadina +who picked up centimes around the flower-market +in Naples when I was young. Do you +think she acquired divinity of soul and utterance +from some supreme emotion? Ridiculous. +She is a gourmand, a virago, absolutely bourgeois, +yet she sings like a seraph. Why, then, +is it not in Carlota’s voice?”</p> + +<p>Ward rose leisurely. The old silken curtains<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> +hung motionless. The shadows were heavy in +the corners of the studio.</p> + +<p>“She is a higher type,” he said in a low +voice. “When you agree with me, bring her to +me.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">After</span> Ward had gone the old Italian maestro +seated himself at the piano, improvising as he +always did when he was disturbed. It was an +enormous old ebony instrument, mellow and +vibrant in its response to his touch. He did +not even look up as Carlota leaned her elbows +upon a pile of dusty folios, watching him anxiously. +Finally she drew a quick, impatient +breath.</p> + +<p>“I wish he would never come here again.”</p> + +<p>“It is customary,” Jacobelli shrugged his +expansive shoulders. “You are too sensitive, +my dear. It is you who are conferring a favor +in permitting this person to provide the means +for your education. You will return to him, in +the hour of your triumph, every penny it has +been his privilege to advance at this time.”</p> + +<p>“Why does he come here and sit looking at +me in such a way? In the courtyard at home +there were little lizards that came out early in +the morning, gray and cold, with eyes like his, +green in the light. I was always afraid of putting +my hand on one of them around the +fountain.”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli struck a minor chord, avoiding her +eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>“Because he is a man, and you are growing +beautiful. You will become accustomed to this +sort of thing. All men will love you, or seem to. +It is the compliment paid to women who are +great artistes. Your grandmother was adored +in her day. Kings and princes knelt at her +shrine, and fought for her favor. Even I was +infatuated with her. You must learn to smile +impersonally and receive homage.”</p> + +<p>“Then it is not—love?” Carlota asked +doubtfully. “I heard what you said to him +about her. Why did you say that, about her +suffering and sacrifice? I never remember her +like that. She was wonderful. She seemed to +give out radiance and warmth like the sunlight. +Wasn’t she happy?”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli’s hands were flung up suddenly, +and he laughed at her.</p> + +<p>“My dear, who may say when a woman is +happy or when she is not. Sometimes they find +their greatest happiness in their most supreme +suffering. She was divine, that is enough. As +for love, Carlotina mia, it is merely Life’s +plaything. It is the toy we give to youth, but +never, never to genius. The rabble amuses itself +with what it calls love. But genius is sufficient +unto itself. It is the celestial fire. It +does not seek a mortal torch upon its altar.”</p> + +<p>“You said you would rather see me dead—”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> +began Carlota slowly, when the little electric +bell at the outer door rang lightly, announcing +Maria Roma at her customary hour of five. +As always, she followed it by half opening the +door, peering around with an arch, reconnoitering +glance.</p> + +<p>“Do I intrude?” she asked, with her beaming +smile, and entered impressively, always +with the dramatic action as if the orchestra +had sounded her motif. She shook one forefinger +impressively at Carlota. “You loiter +and take up the maestro’s time, gossip and +loiter when you should be studying.”</p> + +<p>But Jacobelli waved aside the admonition +with one ample movement of his large, plump +hand. As Carlota went to the inner room for +her cloak and hat, he spoke in an undertone.</p> + +<p>“Ward is becoming very much interested +in her. She treats him with indifference. You +must teach her diplomacy. She has too much +arrogance of youth, and absolutely no gratitude +for what he is doing for her.”</p> + +<p>Maria’s brilliant dark eyes narrowed with +comprehensive amusement.</p> + +<p>“You ask the impossible, Guido. I who have +known all three, Margherita, Bianca, and this +glorious child, tell you the truth, and you will +remember what I say. You can no more teach +the heart of a Paoli to keep its temperament<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> +within bounds than you can yoke the thunder-clouds +and lightning that sweep down over +our Trentino.”</p> + +<p>“And the responsibility is ours,” said Jacobelli, +with a deep exhalation of his cigarette. +“Given this nature, we are to keep her a +prisoner behind the wall of Tittani, eh?”</p> + +<p>Maria sank deeply into the velvet-cushioned +chair beside him, and the two smiled at each +other reminiscently.</p> + +<p>“It was a high wall,” she sighed at length. +“I remember your last visit there, Guido, before +the child was born, five years I think it +was. Bianca was a flower then. Such flaming +hair and dark eyes, the true Florentine type. +She was more like Tittani in her looks. Carlota +is a throwback to the grandmother. Ah, my +Guido, was there ever a woman like her? Even +at the last, before he died, when her heart was +torn with agony of renunciation—”</p> + +<p>“She lost her voice,” Jacobelli spoke with +finality. “Yet Ward would tell me love is the +great fulfillment. Did she ever sing again? No. +She buried her art with her love in the grave +of her poet after he had denied her to the +world. You and I, Maria Roma, who know of +this, must protect this child against the traitor +in her own nature.”</p> + +<p>Maria sighed doubtfully. She was the large,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> +vivid type of the Italian peasant, richly developed +by success and circumstance. Years +before, Sforza, director of La Scala, had +journeyed with friends to a mountain section +of the Trentino. In the purple twilight a voice +had drifted down to them from a band of +vintage workers, homeward bound. It was +Maria Roma at eighteen, a buoyant, deep-breasted +bacchante, her black hair hanging +in thick clusters of curls around her radiant +face.</p> + +<p>Enrico Sforza had loved her, more perhaps +for her ardent faithfulness and responsiveness. +She had achieved a sensation in contralto +rôles and he had interested La Paoli in his +peasant love. In middle age, after his death, +Maria had retired to live at the Villa Tittani +with the old diva. Here she had shared with +her in the tragedy of her final years. Fifty +years before, the story of Margherita Paoli +and her love for John Tennant, the English +poet, had been part of the romance of Italy. +Her beauty and genius had opened every door +of success to her. Even on the threshold of +womanhood she had been given all that ambition +could demand from life, and turning in +the highest hour of her triumphs, she had forsaken +the world for a year, giving the full gift +of her love to Tennant.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>Suddenly she had returned, restless and +hungering for her art. As Maria knew, Tennant +had been jealous of her voice and the life +which he could not share, had demanded that +she give up her career for the sake of their +love, and return with him to England. And +she had laughed at him. Love could not bring +full completeness and happiness to a woman of +genius, she had said. It could not satisfy her +for the loss of the divine fire. Tennant had left +Italy, and five years later she married Count +Tittani. Bianca, the mother of Carlota, had +been born at the old villa overlooking the +Campagna. She had spent her childhood here, +and in the convent of Maria Pietà at the head +of the ancient ilex avenue leading up from +Mondragone. Tittani had died when she was +nine, leaving La Paoli the prestige of his name +and wealth combined with her own full measure +of maturity in her art.</p> + +<p>It was at this time that Maria had come +nearest to her confidence. Word came from +England to them that Tennant had been +stricken blind, and in the midst of a gala performance +of “Traviata,” La Paoli had left all +and gone to him. He had refused to see her +when she reached London. Bertrand Wallace, +his closest friend, had told her simply enough +that he was without means, that he longed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> +go to Italy where “he might feel the sun on +his face,” and she had entered into the splendid +conspiracy that glorified the end of her life.</p> + +<p>The Villa Tittani faced the Campagna with +a lofty, blank wall. Beyond it stretched terraced +gardens, winding alleys of cypress and +ilexes, a place of enchantment, with the never-ending +music of falling waters in the distance, +of hidden fountains in grottoes, and cascades +that fell over ancient steps in ripples of silver. +Yet all its beauty was dominated by its wall, +blank on one side, terraced on the garden side +into long, steep depths of mystery, of infinite +green vistas that lost their way in the cypress +gloom of the lower distances.</p> + +<p>Here Wallace brought his friend, the blind +poet, to the little house near the end of the +wall where the view opened seaward. Two old +servants of the Tittani had cared for him until +his passing, and here La Paoli could come and +watch him from a distance, unseen or suspected +in the largesse of her love by the man +whose faith she had betrayed for fame. It was +characteristic of her that even in her grief and +isolation from him, she seemed to find a supreme, +almost fierce, satisfaction in the tragic +immolation of her own happiness for his sake. +He had died finally, unconscious, on her breast, +and she had never sung again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>“You see, Maria, I have proved the truth +of it in my own heart’s blood,” she had said, +“A woman cannot serve two gods. If Bianca +has my voice, help me to teach her this: no +man is content with half of a woman’s love or +nature. If she desires to attain to the highest +art, she must sacrifice love.”</p> + +<p>Within six months after she had left the +shelter of the convent Bianca had married +Peppino Trelango, son of a dead patriot. The +Contessa had cared for him through his boyhood, +because she had heard him playing on +his violin once on the old quay at Pontecova +where centuries before the body of the boy +count, Giovanni Borgia, had borne witness +against his brother in the dawn. When Bianca +came home, she had met him in the old gardens, +a boy of nineteen, like one of the marble +fauns come to life to teach her youth’s +heritage. When the Contessa returned from a +trip to her favorite midsummer retreat at Isola +Bella, she had found the two gone, and Maria +desolate with despair.</p> + +<p>It was from this romance that Carlota had +been born. After the death of Peppino in an +Algerian skirmish, Bianca had returned to the +villa behind the old rose-colored wall with her +child. She had lived in the gardens with the +memories of her love, a silent, smiling, stately<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> +girl who baffled the vivid, emotional La Paoli +by the elusive sensitiveness of her nature.</p> + +<p>“She is the wraith of my passion for the +love I denied,” the Contessa would declare. “I +starved for him, and trampled the desire with +my pride while I bore her to Tittani. She is the +very spirit of renunciation, Maria, and she will +drive me to madness with her silence and +resignation. Carlota is not like her. She is a +flame, a beautiful rosebud, all light and movement. +She is like I was, God keep her.”</p> + +<p>Carlota was four when they bore her mother +down to the old tomb of the Tittani. She could +remember her voice at night when she bent +over her to kiss her, and the fall of her long, +soft hair over her face. Sometimes in their +walks through the gardens, in the quiet years of +her girlhood, she would come to the old tomb +set into the hillside, its iron gates overgrown +with vines, and she would lean her cheek against +them. Assunta, her nurse, would scold her for +not keeping her thoughts on the spiritual.</p> + +<p>“Ah, a little that was my mother lies here,” +Carlota would answer. “I may love it, Assunta, +without sinning, may I not, just her beautiful +hair even?”</p> + +<p>After Italy entered the war, the villa had +been turned into a hospital, and the fortune +of the Contessa laid at the feet of “La Patria.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>“Still, there is some left,” she had told +Maria at the time of her own departure. +Strong in spirit and dominant, she had ruled +to the end, planning and directing Carlota’s +future. “I have given the child a heritage and +training that are priceless. If you have to, sell +the jewels in the cinque cento chest. They are +for her. I have not even looked at them since +he died. Take her to America, Maria. Find +there Guido Jacobelli. He was a boy when I +made my début, before your time, the gala +performance of ‘Rigoletto.’ I was a wonderful +Gilda, Maria. Later I gave him his first start. +He is not one who forgets. You will go to him +in New York and he will find you a patron. I +have written to the Marchese Veracci to expect +you and see that you are lodged fittingly. +No economy. Surround her with beauty and +comfort while she studies, but keep her from +love until she has won success. Her mother +sacrificed all for Peppino’s kiss. If I were able +I would keep her here behind the wall of +Tittani and never let her see the face of a man +whom she might love. Dust and ashes all, +Maria. The greatest and most enduring is the +memory of a lost love.”</p> + +<p>After the closing of the old villa, Carlota and +Signora Roma had come to New York. Maria +had been prodigal in her expenditures. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> +had taken an expensive studio and had lavished +the tenderest care on her charge.</p> + +<p>“The art quarters of Europe, cara mia,” she +would say to her airily when Carlota protested, +“have been filled for generations with +what?—failures. Boy and girl aspirants, pitiful +little garret Pierrots and Columbines, +starving upon hopes that never materialized. +Art is greedy. It demands all of your nerve, +force and vitality. To come out of the training +of the next four years a victor, you must +pamper yourself. Dress well, eat well, feed +your love of beauty as well as your stomach. +Remember, ‘white hyacinths for the soul as +well as bread for the body.’ You will be a slave +to your art, and must keep the fires burning.”</p> + +<p>“But you will use up all we have,” Carlota +had protested.</p> + +<p>“What then?” Maria had demanded +proudly. “You have only a small fortune left. +You must have thousands, tens of thousands +before you bow to your first night’s audience.”</p> + +<p>They had met the old Marchese Veracci the +first week of their arrival. Few there were in +the Washington Square section of the city +who were not familiar with the stately Old-World +figure of the Marchese. He was as welcome +in the crowded Sicilian quarter below +Fourth Street as in the corridors of the Brevoort<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> +or Lafayette. He held his court daily at +the fountain in the center of the Square. Always +with a fresh boutonnière and a smile and +courtly word for every dark-eyed child who +laughed back at him. Sometimes, when he +strolled past the bust of Garibaldi, he would +leave a little spray of flowers on the pedestal. +After dinner he never failed to stroll out into +the twilight and lift his soul in salute to the +cross of light that gleamed on the memorial +tower above the trees.</p> + +<p>“It is the one spot in the whole city,” he +told them, “that holds the Old-World glamour +and charm, yet I would not have you and +Carlota living down here. The lines of demarcation +are too blurred between the workers +and the dreamers. Then, too, there are the +dancing shapes that come to stare and ridicule. +There is a contagion of play here that breaks +the concentration you must put into your +study, my child. Keep away from it at this +period. Later, I could wish you nothing better +than to share in the spirit of comradeship in +art and beauty, yes, and most of all, in humanity. +That you will find down here, no +matter how others try to detract from the atmosphere, +like the very small boys who will +ever toss pebbles at the stained-glass windows +of the saints.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>Maria Roma had agreed fervently to anything +he said. His delighted enthusiasm satisfied +her that the old Contessa had chosen +rightly in making him joint guardian with her +over Carlota. Guido Jacobelli had retired, he +had told her over their first luncheon en tête-à-tête +at the Italian Club. Money would never +tempt him to teach. Nothing but brilliant +genius in a pupil could ever lure him from his +retreat to give them the full benefit of his +years of experience and study.</p> + +<p>“I know him well, and of them all he is still +the wizard, the maestro. Even now, his word +on a voice would open the gates of opportunity +to any singer. Casanova, of the Opera here, +bows to his dictum. If it were anybody but +Margherita Paoli who calls to me, I would say +no, but as it is, ma bella, we will go. Two +places I know where we may find him, at his +old studio in town and his country home at +Arrochar, on Staten Island. We will go there.”</p> + +<p>The visit had proven Carlota’s crucial hour. +Maria had hovered over her excitedly, feeling +that upon the great old maestro’s verdict lay +the entire future fate of her career. The Marchese +had called for them and had accompanied +them out to Jacobelli’s home. It was typical +of his simplicity and love of nature. On the +wooded heights above Kill von Kull at Arrochar,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> +lay a small colony of Italian artists +and musicians. Their homes were like miniature +villas perched above a smaller bay of +Naples when the myriad lights gleamed on +the shipping and distant Jersey hills.</p> + +<p>As they walked up the quiet hill street from +the station, Carlota’s dark eyes had sparkled +with memories. Surely in this perfect fall day, +with the vivid blue of a cloudless sky above +the deep crimson and gold of autumn foliage, +there was a semblance of the Villa Tittani’s +beauty. A rock wall covered with brilliant red +creeper vines surrounded the garden. It seemed +neglected, with shrubbery straggling in groups, +unclipped and straying. The stone flower urns +were overgrown with rank, clambering vines. +In the southeast corner a dancing faun poised +with wary, pointed ears, as if listening seaward. +When the Marchese tried to open the +outer vestibule door of the enclosed veranda, +two stately Italian greyhounds rose leisurely +and eyed the callers questioningly.</p> + +<p>Within they had found Jacobelli living alone +with his memories. Carlota never forgot the +picture that he made, welcoming them into his +wide, sunlit studio. Swarthy, stout, curly-haired, +frowning at her from heavy eyebrows, +he had seemed to gauge and grasp her whole +capabilities in one swift, cursory glance. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> +had been caressed and encouraged all of her +life, but now, for the first time, she felt her +confidence shaken as she waited by the piano, +facing the piercing eyes and uncompromising +glare of the old maestro. Never once, during +the two years of study under him that followed +that first visit, had she shaken off that +first impression. Eccentric, proud, profoundly +conscious of his power to make or unmake +queens of the operatic world, he had been a +revelation to her from that day.</p> + +<p>The Marchese had pleaded for her eloquently, +showing the letter he had received +from La Paoli a few weeks before her death. +Jacobelli had listened to it in silence, staring +fixedly at the girl. She was very like her grandmother +in appearance, he thought. Behind her +stood a towering old terra-cotta jar filled with +scarlet autumn leaves. She looked out at the +sea view, her eyes filled with a dreaming longing. +Her hair was heavy and lustrous, growing +back from a low, broad forehead with the +shell-like outline one sees in the portraits of +Beatrice or one of Del Sarto’s girl saints. Her +eyes were long and shadowy, heavy-lidded, +aloof. When she was interested or startled, +they opened widely, a deep, warm brown color, +their darkness made more vivid by the rare +rose red of her lips and the peculiar jasmine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> +clearness of her skin. But it was something beyond +mere beauty and grace that arrested +Jacobelli’s interest. There was a sense of suppressed +vitality about her, the insistent promise +of the unusual, of some compelling magnetism +that lay behind her silence and repression. +Suddenly he seated himself at the long +bench, and struck a chord for her pitch.</p> + +<p>“Sing,” he ordered. “First, a long scale.”</p> + +<p>Carlota had hesitated, looking to Maria for +sympathy. Might she not sing, for this supreme +trial, some famous aria? But Signora +Roma had raised both hands in hushed rebuke. +They were before the final tribunal. The +outcome was on the knees of the gods. But as +the full, vibrant soprano rose to the scale, Jacobelli +struck a crashing chord and leapt from +the bench, clasping his arms about the slim +figure at his side.</p> + +<p>“Ah, Sanctissima Maria, it is there!” he +shouted. “It is the voice of Paoli come to life +once more! My beautiful, my marvel, ah, what +we will not make of you! Sing, cara mia, sing +again for me. No, so!”</p> + +<p>For over an hour Carlota sang for him, +while Maria sat by the deep bay window, +weeping from sheer happiness, and the old +Marchese strolled to and fro, stroking the +greyhounds, and smoking incessantly, keeping<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> +time as he smiled at the success of his experiment.</p> + +<p>The fruition of that first visit had come +richly in the two years that followed it. Carlota +was eighteen now, with not alone the +years of her grandmother’s careful teaching, +but Jacobelli’s unceasing discipline and watchfulness +as her voice ripened and developed. +One year more and she would be ready for her +début, he said. It was this final year she +dreaded, with Ward’s visits to the studio becoming +more frequent and his interest in her +losing its cloak of patronage.</p> + +<p>She was silent on this day, almost during +the entire homeward walk across the Park. +Their apartment had been Maria’s choice, selected +against the better judgment of even the +Marchese. He had advised a smaller, less expensive +suite farther uptown, but in a conservative +section. Maria had cast the suggestion +from her scornfully. For the struggling +student any environment was of secondary +consideration, but for the sole pupil of Guido +Jacobelli, the protégée of Ogden Ward, there +must be a gilded cage. Between Fifth Avenue +and Madison in the upper Sixties she had +found one that suited her, a spacious apartment +that in its richness of tone satisfied her. +It might have been from the Villa Tittani<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> +itself, by the time Maria had finished its decoration.</p> + +<p>“You had worried the maestro to-day,” she +said severely, as they approached the heavy +bronze and crystal entrance. “He could not +even improvise. We are giving our whole +hearts and souls to you for your success, and +you are not grateful.”</p> + +<p>Carlota turned her head and smiled at her +tenderly. She was used to the scoldings of the +old prima donna.</p> + +<p>“I am grateful to you, tanta mia,” she said, +slipping her hand under the other’s arm. “But +I sometimes think I hate Mr. Ward. When I +hear his footstep I cannot sing any more, and +when he sits there and looks at me I could +jump from the window. I hate his eyes and his +voice and everything about him.”</p> + +<p>Maria’s dark eyebrows arched in amazement. +She glanced with quick suspicion at the +girl’s troubled face.</p> + +<p>“But you have no reason—have you?”</p> + +<p>Carlota’s eyes narrowed with amusement at +her anxiety. As they entered the lower hall, she +stripped off her long gray suède gloves impatiently. +The lights were not switched on yet, +and she let one fall near the outer steps. It lay, +a part of the twilight, unnoticed by either herself +or Maria, but one who came behind them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> +picked it up. It was a mere fleeting impression +she caught of him. Maria had stepped into the +elevator when he reached her side to return it, +a curious, poster-like figure, with the uncertain +light accentuating his foreign features and +half-closed, seeking eyes.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is mine, thank you,” she said +gravely, and carried with her upstairs an impression +of restless, suppressed dissent and +discontent combined with a haunting fragrance +of a new cigarette smoke. When she reached +the apartment, while Maria hurried to make +Russian tea for them, she stood by the window, +looking down over the boxes of green. Across +the street in the mother-of-pearl gloom, she +could see the glow of the cigarette where the +boy stood, waiting for something, and it held +her with almost a premonition of menace.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Over</span> the tea she was unusually silent, while +Maria, ensconced at last on her favorite chaise +longue, mellowed under the warmth. Carlota’s +voice, cool with daring, broke in on her relaxation.</p> + +<p>“Maria, when will you treat me as a +woman?”</p> + +<p>Maria’s face flushed as she spilled the tea +blindly on the rug.</p> + +<p>“You are in love?” she gasped. “Never +would you have thought of such a thing if you +were not in love.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you poor, old preciosa!” Carlota +laughed richly, folding her arms around the +signora’s ample shoulders. “I wouldn’t know +love if I met him face to face this minute in +your teacup. But I want to know so much, +Maria. I want to ask you about so many +things. You love me, do you not? Enough to +tell me anything at all I ask you?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, do I not,” sighed Maria uneasily. “Is +it about Mr. Ward?”</p> + +<p>Carlota drew up a low footstool of rose silk +and ivory carving, and laid her glossy head +close to the one on the pillows.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>“I have said I hate him,” she replied composedly. +“Let us forget that I ever have to see +him again. I want you to listen and love me +more than you ever have so you will answer +me truthfully. Why did Signor Jacobelli tell +Mr. Ward to-day that my grandmother sacrificed +her whole womanhood and that he would +rather see me dead than have me like her. +What was behind the wall of Tittani that I +never knew about?”</p> + +<p>“He is a pompous old egoist,” Maria answered +with amazing composure considering +the tumult in her mind. “You remember her? +Did she not live like a queen with her court +even at her age? She was the most regal person +I ever knew. You can remember the life at the +villa? Was it somber or full of unhappiness? +She was the Contessa Tittani. She had everything +she wanted. Some day when you have +gained all that she did, we will go back to the +old villa, and spend our summers there. Remember +your goats, beloved, the little Nini +and Cherubini—”</p> + +<p>“They will be gone when we get back,” +Carlota said slowly. “You have lied to me as +you always do, Maria, with love. I will tell you +things I remember that you do not know I +know. I can remember my mother. She was +very white, with eyes like the lower pool in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> +moonlight, and her hair was so soft and so +long. I felt it always over my face in the darkness +when she bent to kiss me good-night. I +have dreamt I felt it since, and wakened reaching +for her. You know Assunta?”</p> + +<p>Maria murmured an inarticulate, doubtful +injunction to Assunta’s attendant dæmon, +and made horns with her finger-tips with a +subconscious reversion to the old superstition +of the Trentino fireside tales.</p> + +<p>“She had a rattling tongue. What has she +told you?”</p> + +<p>“It was about the wall.” Carlota clasped +her hands around her knees, and looked before +her seeing the way of the old villa and the +beauty of it. “It was so high to me in those +days. I have looked up at it, Maria, until it +seemed as if its highest terrace met the sky.”</p> + +<p>“There were seven, built by Giovanni Fontana.”</p> + +<p>“I loved them. The stone was so old and +rose-colored with green and violet streaking it. +On the side towards the road it was so bare +and forbidding, and on our side it was all +beauty and lavishness as if it could not give us +too much, of its bounty. There was no entrance, +you remember, Maria, there by the road, and +I used to follow the wall around the garden +trying to see how you ever went out through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> +it. And Assunta told me, I suppose to keep me +satisfied, that no one had ever found the way +over the wall excepting my mother—”</p> + +<p>“Ah, the blind, cackling pullet. If I had +known—” Maria nodded her head with relish. +“She was selling melons in Mondragone +when your mother lived.”</p> + +<p>“And when I asked her how my mother +ever climbed the wall”—Carlota’s eyes closed +and opened again with dreamy ecstasy—“she +told me she escaped with the wings of love. +After that—don’t scold, dear, I love to talk +to you about it, and there is no one else +now—after that I loved the wall better than all +the gardens and the fountains and the grottoes +even. Won’t you tell me what Jacobelli +meant, now? What meaning did he put into +it all, the wall and the unhappiness of my +grandmother and the tragedy of it all?”</p> + +<p>Maria Roma was silent for some time. +Slowly she reached for a cigarette and lighted +it, drawing deeply on it as she stared upward +at the ceiling.</p> + +<p>“I have waited for this,” she said finally, +with a sigh of resignation. “Some day I knew +you would ask me, and out of all the world, I +would rather tell you, because I will discriminate +between what you should know and what +is best buried in that old garden tomb. Wait.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> +She pushed away Carlota’s reaching arms. +“See what I have saved for you out of the +past.”</p> + +<p>Impulsively she rose and crossed to the end +of the studio. Hidden here behind old strips of +tapestry and mediæval embroidery were old +locked chests which had been brought from +Italy with all the care the dower treasures of a +princess might have commanded. Carlota had +never even guessed at their contents. If she +had given the matter a thought at all, she had +believed them filled with little household keepsakes, +linen, silver, bric-à-brac which Maria +had managed to save for her.</p> + +<p>Now she stood in amazement as the old +singer lifted out costume after costume from +the chests, stage raiment and festive gowns of +thirty and forty years before. From carved and +inlaid boxes she drew out gems and decorations +that had been lavished on the great diva +and laid them before Carlota, forgetting in the +pride of the moment the discretion of silence +regarding the romance of genius. The girl’s +eyes widened with glowing wonder and delight +as she fingered the old treasures, listening to +Maria’s vivid, picturesque recital of the reign +of Margherita Paoli.</p> + +<p>“She was taller than you, cara mia, majestic, +a queen in carriage and expression. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> +never wore other hair than her own. It was +golden bronze and hung in ripples to her knees. +I have woven it in Marguerita’s plaits with +these strands of pearls, and coiled it high into +Fedora’s crown with this diamond and ruby +tiara. The necklace is here, too.” She piled the +contents of the cases eagerly until she found +it. “Rubies and diamonds. They came from +the crown jewels of Roumania, a part of the +Constantinople loot centuries ago. The crown +prince was exiled to a mountain garrison in the +Caucasus for two years after he gave them to +her, but he never told where they were. This +center ruby in the tiara is from Persia, one of +the finest in the world. Some day you shall +wear them. They will suit you as they did her. +And this—ah, my child, you should have +seen her wearing this in ‘Semiramide.’” She +lifted out a heavy barbaric stomacher encrusted +in rough, uncut jewels. “This was +given to her by the Rajah of Kadurstan. He +tried to kill himself after the performance one +night in Paris when she refused to see him. +This necklace of opals and emeralds was from +the Grand Duke of Teklahava. It had been +part of the Byzantine loot in the days of Ivan +the Terrible. Ah, but, Carlota, behold, this +was ever about her throat, the medallion hidden +in her breast from all eyes. Never will I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> +forget the night when Tennant gave it to her. +The king had given a farewell banquet for her. +She was decorated and fêted as never any +other singer was. And after it was over, I saw +the two as they stood out in the moonlit loggia +of the palace, and he clasped this about her +white throat. His portrait is in the medallion. +There is a secret spring—wait—so it opens. +Was he not a worthy lover for her?”</p> + +<p>Carlota looked long at the pictured face in +the old gold and crystal case. It was old-fashioned +in style. The hair was worn long and +curled back thickly from his forehead. It was +the head of an enthusiast, boyish, too, in its +eager intensity, passionate, unsatisfied.</p> + +<p>“He does not look happy,” she said slowly. +“I have never heard his name before. Who +was he, Maria?”</p> + +<p>Signora slipped from the clouds with a shock +of reality and caught the medallion from her +hand.</p> + +<p>“No one, no one at all. See this ring, one single +perfect solitaire surrounded by black pearls, a +gift from the Empress of France, my child.”</p> + +<p>Carlota rose, staring down at the wealth of +jewels with puzzled, hurt pride.</p> + +<p>“Why have we accepted money from Mr. +Ward to pay for my tuition when we had these +to sell?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>The vandalism of the suggestion horrified +Maria. She replaced everything with a resolute +hand, locking each case from a small bunch of +keys suspended from a slender chain on her +neck.</p> + +<p>“You would market the trophies of your +grandmother!” she said haughtily. “America +has commercialized you. They belong to the +woman you will be. I will give you the keys at +your début.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t care so very much for them. They +are beautiful, but, after all, they are only +things you buy. I asked you for something +richer.” She laid her arms coaxingly about +Maria’s throat. “Was my mother happy?”</p> + +<p>“If love can make any woman happy, she +was.” Signora Roma’s voice broke with agitation. +“Do not ask me anything further.”</p> + +<p>“She was very young to die, was she not, +only twenty-two? She was younger than I am +now when she first met my father, wasn’t she, +Maria?” No answer, but she felt the tears on +her own cheek as she pressed it to Maria’s face. +“I think I know what it is you will not tell me. +With all the jewels and triumphs, my grandmother +lost her love, and somehow, my mother +found love even though she died so young and +was never famous. Is that it?”</p> + +<p>Maria suddenly reached her hands upward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> +and framed the face above her in a tremulous +caress.</p> + +<p>“You have the heritage of rebellion; how +can I warn you or teach you to fight it? Your +worst enemy, Carlota, is your own heart. Distrust +it. It is the traitor to your individuality—your +genius, whatever you like to call it.”</p> + +<p>Carlota stood erect, laughing suddenly, her +arms outstretched widely.</p> + +<p>“Listen to this that Assunta told me too,” +she said teasingly. “Once, hundreds of years +ago, the Villa Tittani was part of an old castle. +The wall is all that is left of it, and the old +tower above the grottoes. And there was a +Princess Fiametta—”</p> + +<p>Maria made horns with her finger-tips hastily.</p> + +<p>“Assunta was a scandalous waggle-tongue. +Had I only guessed that she was stuffing your +ears with this sort of gunpowder, I would have +known how to finish her forever. I hear the +bell.”</p> + +<p>It was the Marchese, courtly and whimsical +as he glanced shrewdly from one to the other.</p> + +<p>“I have come to entreat a favor,” he said +happily. “After I have partaken of your most +excellent tea, ma bella Maria, I will ask it. I +have not the courage yet. How is our little +one?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>Carlota’s brows drew together behind his +back. She waited in silence, listening while the +Marchese brought Maria into a mellow mood +with his little buoyant stories and high lights +of adventure.</p> + +<p>“Ah, but I have seen sights to-day, a whole +avenue of traffic held up because a tiny goldfinch +escaped from a bird store on Twenty-Third +Street. It alighted directly in the car +track and shrank there panting and terrified, +and in this hard-hearted, prosaic city, not one +would drive over it. Is not that a fair sign of +the times, my friend? And again, I take the +’bus down the Avenue at dusk for the beauty +of the lights in perspective, like magnolia +blooms if you but half close your eyes. And +yesterday I saw the conductor, a red-cheeked +Irish boy, reading a newspaper that had been +left on a seat. What you think? The baseball +column? The sports? Not at all.” The Marchese +chuckled tenderly. “He reads the advice +to young mothers. See? It is the brand new +bambino somewhere with its finger-tips rose-petaled, +holding his heart fast. And a pack of +children on Thompson Street fighting—for +what? A trampled pink carnation. I would +have turned them loose if I could have, in that +meadow of oleanders and the orange grove +beyond, you remember, Maria, as you come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> +down from Frascati and below the Campagna +and the sea. Salute!” He sighed reminiscently, +and reached for his teacup. “I am an old romanticist, +Carlota. Your youth must be patient +with my maunderings of sentiment.”</p> + +<p>Maria retired to the kitchenette to prepare +fresh tea, and Carlota lighted the candles on +the low table by the fire.</p> + +<p>“You are happy, yes?” the Marchese asked, +regarding her with the pride he took no pains +to conceal. “Jacobelli tells me it may only be +for one year more, and then, behold! I live for +that first night of triumph.”</p> + +<p>Carlota sighed impatiently. It was as though +the sight of the jewels and story of La Paoli’s +life had wakened in her youth’s urge for adventure. +She looked up at the fine old face +wistfully.</p> + +<p>“I am lonely. Tanta keeps me as secluded as +if I were in a convent. Surely I am old enough +to go out somewhere. Now that summer is +over, it seems as if I could not stand another +winter. Aren’t they bleak here? Every day +when we walk in the Park, I want to turn and +run from it all, the stripped trees and caged +animals, and Maria and Jacobelli, and everything!” +Her finger-tips stretched widely. “I +am homesick.”</p> + +<p>“No, you are just ennuied, that is all,” said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> +the Marchese soothingly. He pursed his lips +until his silver-gray imperial and pointed mustache +took on the semblance of a crescent and +scimitar. Yet his eyes twinkled down at her +understandingly. “Sunday evening I go, as is +my custom, to the home of my friend Carrollton +Phelps. Many, many interesting people +drop in there at that time. It would be a beginning +for you, but, mind, I will not have you +known for what you are. Not a whisper.”</p> + +<p>“Are they all”—Carlota checked herself; +not for worlds would she have wounded the debonnair +old courtier by even suggesting that he +was past the meridian of life—“famous?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, no. They are all aspirants,” he +corrected. “One must show some signs of having +the germ, at least, of genius before the door +opens widely, but you will find many who are +young like yourself, many. I, myself, will prepare +Maria.”</p> + +<p>But when the evening came the signora was +indisposed, and insisted on Carlota’s remaining +with her. The Marchese waved her objections +aside tenderly.</p> + +<p>“It is most informal and Mrs. Phelps is +charming. Here in America, Maria, we adjust +the barriers of etiquette to the whim of +the moment. I will guard her from anything +dangerous, you may be sure.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>They had taken a hansom down the avenue, +instead of a taxi. It was the Marchese’s choice.</p> + +<p>“I never like to be hurried,” he told her. “I +do not like this—what do they call it?—joy +of speeding. The aeroplane, yes. I have two +boys in the service at home, but not for +amusement. I like to take my little moments +of outdoor enjoyment leisurely. You will see, +my dear, how beautiful this is. I call it my +avenue of flower lights.”</p> + +<p>The home of the Phelpses was on East Tenth +Street, a tall four-storied residence of dark +brown stone. Above the low deep French doorway +there stretched across the entire second +floor a great carved Moorish window of exquisite +fretwork which Phelps had transported +from an old palace in Seville.</p> + +<p>Despite her indisposition Maria had given +much thought and anxiety to Carlota’s toilette +for the occasion. Finally, she had laid out for +her a beautiful old scarf of Point Venise, so +yellowed by age that it was the tint of old +ivory. It was encrusted with tiny seed pearls, +and with it she selected from one of the chests +a girdle of gold links, cunningly joined in serpentine +fashion with pendent topaz here and +there.</p> + +<p>“It is a trifle too barbaric,” she had mused, +“but yet it suits you. And you shall wear +white velvet like Julietta.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>“Oh, no, I will not,” laughed Carlota, kissing +her. “You would have me perpetually +making my début, tanta.” Accordingly she +had chosen her own gown, the hue of an oak +autumn leaf, which fell close to her slender +young figure in mediæval lines. As she lingered +before the mirror before leaving, Carlota +smiled back at her reflection almost with a +challenge. Back at the villa there was an old +painting hanging at a turn in a staircase, +where the sunlight would fall full upon it from +an oriel window high above. It was the Princess +Fiametta, her eyes wearied with the +weight of the golden crown that bound her +brows, her gown the same tint and style as the +one Carlota wore to-night. She turned her girdle +sideways so that its line might correspond +with that in the painting, and rumpled her +hair to make the resemblance more striking.</p> + +<p>The old legend Assunta had told her recurred +vividly to-night. She had been merely a +girl princess, imprisoned in the old garden and +towered castle by custom and precedent. And +there had been a young fisherman from the +village at the foot of the mountain, Peppino, +who had come to the Castle. From her tower +window she had seen and loved him, and at a +fête in the village she had dared to escape over +the wall and mingle with the people. Peppino<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> +had danced with her, and wooed her, not knowing +she was the princess in disguise, and his +sweetheart had stabbed her through jealousy. +It was the tragedy of youth’s eternal quest +after romance and had lost nothing from Assunta’s +impassioned telling.</p> + +<p>“To-night, maybe,” Carlota told herself, +half laughingly, half in earnest, as she looked +back in the mirror, “we scale the wall of Tittani.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> passed up a carven, squarely built staircase +to the second floor. The rooms were lofty +and spacious. It seemed to Carlota, in the first +glance about her, there here prevailed something +of the same spirit that had marked her +grandmother’s receptions. Little groups gathered +intimately in corners, a girl played something +of Grieg’s at the grand piano in the far +room. Her hair had a golden sheen beneath the +lampshade of Chinese embroidery, bronze and +yellow.</p> + +<p>The Marchese was in his happiest mood, the +smiling courtier to his finger-tips. He left her +with Mrs. Phelps, a little dark woman with +frankly graying hair, but as the other guests +came up the staircase, Carlota found herself on +a low Moorish stool beside Carrollton Phelps’s +chair. He attracted her greatly. During the +drive down the Avenue the Marchese had told +her his story with unction. It was a favorite +tale with him. Phelps had gone abroad in the +earliest days of the war, joining the Lafayette +Escadrille. Only those who knew him intimately +before this happened, could appreciate +what his personal gift of service had meant at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> +that time even in the great summing-up of sacrifice +that followed later. He had been a very +successful artist, painting portraits of celebrities +and social leaders. He had always been +lavish in entertaining even then, and now, +when he returned at thirty-five, a helpless +paralytic from his final fall, the most amazing +thing had been, as the Marchese expressed it, +that “his wings were unbroken.”</p> + +<p>To Carlota, even the expression of his face +brought a certain sense of encouragement, as if +he divined the strangeness that she felt among +all these new faces. His dark hair was prematurely +whitened like his wife’s, but she liked +his lean, virile face, and keen, dark eyes. Even +while his friends came and went beside him, he +kept her there, asking her questions of her life +in Italy.</p> + +<p>“The Marchese has told me who you are—a +glorious heritage. Mind you keep the pace, +but don’t let them starve you.” His thin, +strong hands gesticulated eagerly. “I know +them. It was the same with me before I went +over, success and more success and then—husks. +Do you know the greatest thing that +came to me from it all? My wife. We were +married just before I left, and she went also, +down in Serbia, where it was hell, you remember, +nursing. I did not see her for four years,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> +then her face came out of a gray cloud in a +London hospital and I found the strength to +live even to look at her. Don’t let them deceive +you, my dear. There is nothing at all in +this thing called life but love and ideals. Will +you tell that fellow to come here, the one with +the violin.”</p> + +<p>The man stood by the piano, smiling at +something the girl had just said as she turned +from the keyboard. He bowed as Carlota gave +her message, looked at her with his quizzical, +half-closed eyes near-sightedly, and strolled to +Phelps’s side. Presently he returned.</p> + +<p>“I have to bring you back. He only wanted +me to meet you.”</p> + +<p>“I have been preaching your song of life,” +Phelps said, drawing himself up in his chair +with the quick, restless movement that spoke +of pain-cramped muscles. “This is the spirit of +Serbia and all burdened peoples, Dmitri Kavec. +Betty saved his life, and he has retaliated +by keeping me in a ferment of enthusiasm over +his country in her birth-pangs. He is not as +sardonic as he appears. It is a pose.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri’s face flushed eagerly, a queer, shy +deepening in color like an embarrassed boy.</p> + +<p>“I never pose, Miss Trelango. My life is +nothing, understand. I drop it overboard anywhere +at all, but I had forgotten how to laugh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> +or look at the sun, and Mrs. Phelps has shown +it to me again, that is all. For her sake I put up +with the abuse from this person here. Do you +live down here?”</p> + +<p>Carlota shook her head. Some one had taken +the place of the girl at the piano, she could not +see whom, but at the first low, minor chords, +she was aware of a strange thrill of interest. +Dmitri leaned back in the winged armchair +next to Phelps and closed his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Now we have some dream pictures,” he +said softly.</p> + +<p>Carlota lifted her head eagerly to catch a +glimpse of the player. The other men in the +studio, even Phelps himself, had all seemed to +her like the Marchese and Jacobelli, middle-aged, +sophisticated, impervious to romance or +sentiment, tired of all emotion. But the boy at +the piano was different. He seemed to have forgotten +the people around him, and yet he led +their fancy where he would with the magic of +his melody and tone pictures.</p> + +<p>Looking from face to face Carlota saw the +spell steal over each. The Marchese smiled +with half-closed eyes, living over the joyous +indiscretions of his youth. Mrs. Phelps had +forgotten her guests as she bent over Carrollton, +her fingers clasped in his with mothering +tenderness. The girl who had played Grieg<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> +leaned back her head, her eyes filled with +moody unrest. Dmitri bent forward, his cigarette +burning itself to a neglected ash, a little +smile on his lips. Almost imperceptibly his +eyes watched Carlota.</p> + +<p>A strange troubled feeling stole over her. It +was as if the music had seized upon her own +secret yearnings and was expressing them in all +its exotic cadence. Suddenly she caught the +eyes of the musician watching her as he played. +The studio was dimly lighted from long, pendent +temple lamps. The shifting glow from a +tall candelabra on the piano showed her his +face. It was young, with strong, lean lines, restless, +seeking eyes, the chin and mouth lacking +the sensuous weakness of the usual virtuoso. +When he finished he crossed to her, pausing to +answer a few who stopped him on the way. +Dmitri sighed heavily and rose.</p> + +<p>“See now, he will come and tell you he has +been waiting for æons to see your face. He is all +on fire. Do not extinguish the flame. He will +tread the star path in this mood if you do not +pitch him down to earth.”</p> + +<p>Carlota drew back from his amused eyes, +behind a tall Moorish screen of carved olive +fretwork. Why did they all smile at things that +were sacred and beyond all sense of touch or +sound? If the Marchese would only come near,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> +she would beg him to leave now, now while it +was all clear and fresh in her mind, the haunting, +hurting sweetness of the music and the +long look between them. And as she found +her breath, he stood beside her. For the moment +they were as isolated as if he had found +her alone in some glade of Fontainebleau, like +Pierrot and Columbine.</p> + +<p>“Why did you try to hide from me?” His +tone was low and broken with embarrassment. +“I played to you—you knew that, didn’t +you? I tried to get to you before, but Dmitri +had you. Who are you, you pagan girl with the +wonder eyes? Tell me how you slipped in here +to-night. Where I come from, we have gorgeous +night moths; I love them, brown and tawny. +Your eyes are that color, and your face is like a +jasmine lifted to the moon. A warm, amber +moon in late August, don’t you know. You’ll +think I’m a crazy poet if I keep on, but it’s +your own fault. You make me want to be a +poet and everything else that means adoration +of you. Can’t you speak to me?”</p> + +<p>She closed her eyes as he gripped her hands +in his. It was all so strange, so wrong, she knew +how Maria would banish any such mad emotions, +and yet she gloried in the tumult in her +heart, in the swift response to every word he +uttered, the reckless urge within her to turn to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> +him. She strove to conquer it, and answer with +composure.</p> + +<p>“I think it is dangerous to speak so. Let us +go to Mr. Phelps.”</p> + +<p>“And your eyes say all the while, ‘I have +found you,’” he laughed and took the seat beside +her. “That’s what I told myself when you +looked at me. I’ve found her. Tell me, truthfully, +aren’t you glad to see me, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>Carlota smiled up at him teasingly.</p> + +<p>“The man you call Dmitri told me you +would say this to me. You should not let him +spoil the surprise.”</p> + +<p>“Did he? I didn’t think the old gray fra +had such discernment. Did he tell you my +name? I know yours. It is all the sweethearts +of the ages in one. That last thing I played was +a Celtic love song; I saw you in a silver mist +with the sea behind you and headlands and a +girl moon clambering up the stairway of desire.” +He stopped short, eyeing her with boyish +curiosity. “I wonder just who you are +really. You came with old Veracci, didn’t +you?”</p> + +<p>“I am Italian,” Carlota answered gravely. +“I have been here nearly three years. I am a +singer.”</p> + +<p>“Are you?” he exclaimed eagerly. “That’s +why everything in me called out to you. I was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> +in college, the third year, when the war came +over here. I had wanted to go with Carrollton, +but I was just eighteen then, so I promised my +mother I’d wait. She’ll love you,” he added +ingenuously. “I went over the next spring +and came through all right; that’s how I met +Dmitri. We were all wounded about the same +time.”</p> + +<p>“I thought you said you were all right?”</p> + +<p>“I mean I didn’t get killed or anything like +that. Isn’t Phelps a wonder? He’d give a dying +coyote courage to howl. He told me to stick +it out down here. I’m a composer. One of those +kinks of fate put me into a perfectly respectable, +sane Colorado family. Father was head of +some smelter works out there. He started me +through Columbia, with a postgrad. in law +ahead of me, but I met Carrollton and he +heard me play. Now I’m here until I make +good.”</p> + +<p>“You will be famous.” Carlota’s eyes shone +as she looked up at him. “Never have I heard +such music, and I have listened to—” She +checked herself, a sudden spirit of mischief +prompting her. Was he not Pierrot, poor and +struggling, with his heart a chalice of faith uplifted +to the stars, while she was a child of +fortune with the pathway to success fair and +broad before her as the sea road to the Campagna<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> +back home. But for to-night, only to-night, +she would be Columbine for him, straying, +friendless Columbine, seeking shelter from +the storm. “Some day I hope to be a great +singer,” she said softly.</p> + +<p>“Do you? You beautiful, dreaming moth +girl. And lessons cost like the very devil here in +New York.” He ran his fingers through his +close-cut blond hair doubtfully, Carlota watching +him shyly, thinking how much his profile +was like that of a certain young emperor’s on +an old Roman coin she had. There was the +same straight line from forehead to nostril, the +same touch of youth’s arrogance in his curving +lips and cleft, projecting chin. “Do you know,” +he continued confidently, “I am sure I can +help you. I could start you on your lessons, you +know. Don’t refuse. I’d love to help you, to +even think I was. I have a rocky old studio +down on the Square; nothing like this; it’s +poverty’s back door compared to it, but if +you’ll come there, I will help you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but it is impossible,” Carlota exclaimed, +rising hurriedly. “I never go anywhere +alone, it is not the custom with my people. +It is so very kind of you, but”—she met +his eyes wistfully—“I do not even know +your name.”</p> + +<p>“I am Griffeth Ames. Ask Veracci, he knows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> +me, so does Phelps. Listen, if you won’t come +for your own sake, for God’s pity, come for +mine. I’m starving down here for just what +you gave me to-night when I first looked into +your eyes—inspiration. I must see you and +talk to you about my work; I need you. Will +you come?”</p> + +<p>“The heavens would fall if I did,” she +laughed unsteadily, trying to draw her hands +from his clasp.</p> + +<p>“Let them crash, who cares?” he said. +“You’ll come to me, I know you will. I’ll call +to you with music till you hear.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Maria</span> was still indisposed on the following +day. She asked many questions about the +evening before, who the guests had been, and +which ones had impressed Carlota. Always her +eyes sought the girl’s, testing her answers.</p> + +<p>“I should have been happier if you had +been there, tanta,” Carlota told her tenderly. +“You’re not worrying still, are you? Nobody +carried me away.”</p> + +<p>Maria closed her eyes as if to shut out any +telltale gleam they might have held.</p> + +<p>“I blame myself whatever happens,” she +sighed dramatically. “I should never have +shown you the jewels. The ancient Hindoos +are perfectly right. They claim the evil spirits, +when imprisoned in the earth, produced gold +and gems to ensnare the souls of mankind, +especially women. Ah, mia carina, I am growing +old and careless. You have made no further +engagements?”</p> + +<p>“The Marchese did not ask me to go anywhere +else.” Carlota bent over a low jar of +cyclamen, her face turned away.</p> + +<p>“Assuredly not. I am an old fool. Do not +speak of the jewels to anybody, not even Jacobelli.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> +I must place them in a safety-deposit +vault; not keep them here. And while I am ill, +you will not walk through the Park to the +studio. I prefer to have you ride always. Come +here to me.” She half raised herself as Carlota +knelt beside the couch, and framed her face in +her palms. “You must not think I am harsh, +my dearest one, or trying to keep you from +pleasures you should have. It will all come to +you in richest measure later on. Now we must +be careful of you. You understand it is only +because of our great love for you, do you not?”</p> + +<p>“I know, surely, I understand.”</p> + +<p>“Has no one ever spoken to you on your +way to the studio?” Maria’s voice trembled +with eager insistence. “Have you ever imagined +you were followed? No, no, of course not. +Do not be frightened at all. It is only Maria’s +old love of the extravagant, the dramatic situation,” +she laughed softly, sinking back. “But +remember to ride always when you are alone, +and speak to no one.”</p> + +<p>Wonderingly, guiltily, too, Carlota reassured +her, but when she reached the street she +looked about her that day, with the first caution +she had ever felt since their arrival in +New York. What could Maria have meant? +They knew no one in the city who could possibly +have had any sinister intent towards<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> +them, yet there had been a lurking, secret fear +in the eyes of the old signora.</p> + +<p>At the corner of Fifth Avenue she hailed a +taxicab, and arriving at the studio pleaded a +headache as an excuse for a short lesson. Jacobelli +was in a trying mood. Over and over +again he railed at her, telling her that after +his months of training, she was not putting +her whole heart and soul into her singing. And +suddenly Carlota leaned her chin on her palms +at the back of the old grand piano, and asked:</p> + +<p>“I wonder, maestro, if I were poor and unknown, +and came to you, would you give me +lessons because you had faith in my voice?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not,” exclaimed Jacobelli positively. +“I could never give you enough to win +you the highest fame. The teaching is not sufficient. +The great artiste must have peace of +mind. We do not exist upon air; not even a +bird with a celestial voice like yours. No, my +dear, I would have told you to forget your +pride and do exactly as you have done. Secure +the financial backing of a man like Ogden +Ward. I worship art. It has always been my +life, but I recognize, like a sensible man, that +in the times we live in we artists must still +seek the patron even as Angelo and Raphael +did. The public is not strong enough to sustain +us. It cannot sustain itself, what would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> +you? Some day, when the world is all golden +with peace and plenty and brotherhood, then +the singer will be the beloved prophet once +again, and we shall delight in all the milk and +honey and oil and burnt offerings we require, +without the commonplace formality of contracts.” +He laughed at her heartily, leaning over +to pat her hands. “Come early to-morrow; +Mr. Ward will be here.”</p> + +<p>She left the studio with a sense of suffocating +rebellion. They were all the same, Jacobelli, +Ward, even Maria. Only the gentle, chivalrous +old Marchese warmed her faith with his tender, +hopeful philosophy, and were not his +friends like him, even Dmitri Kavec? What +was it this group had seemed to find in the +fields of scarlet poppies that lifted idealism +and faith in humanity above the creed of +success and individual self-seeking?</p> + +<p>As she stepped from the old red-brick building, +a Greek flower vender wheeled his pushcart +to the curb. She looked over the brilliantly +tinted asters and chrysanthemums +longingly, but purchased merely a spray of +autumn leaves and hurried to the corner where +the Riverside autobuses passed on their way +crosstown to the Avenue.</p> + +<p>Following after her leisurely came the man +who had picked up her gloves in the vestibule<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> +some nights before. It would have been difficult +to guess his age or nationality. He was +slender, undersized, yet with a strongly knit, +athletic frame that told of military training. +Swarthy-skinned, dark-haired, with the brilliant +black eyes of the southern races, he +seemed merely a boy until one saw the somber, +detached experience in his expression and +eyes. As Carlota, almost trembling at her own +temerity, stepped into the interior of a Washington +Square ’bus, he followed her, swinging +lightly up the narrow, winding staircase to the +top.</p> + +<p>The number which Griffeth Ames had given +her was on the south side of the Square near +MacDougal Street. It was an old four-story +brownstone building, the last of five of the +same kind sitting back in small flagged yards +from the sidewalk. The paint which had scaled +from its iron portico and balconies merely imitated +the stucco front which had crumbled +off in large patches. There were many names +written on soiled cards and slips of white paper +above the rows of bells in the entrance, and +among them she found his. Just within the dim +hall a young Italian girl knelt on a marble-topped +table, polishing the brass ornaments on +the old oval hall mirror. She smiled down absently +as Carlota asked the way.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>“At the very top of the house. You have to +knock hard or he won’t hear you.”</p> + +<p>She climbed the three flights quickly. The +door at the top was ajar. It was surprising to +find such spaciousness here under the gabled +roof. As she hesitated on the threshold, her +swift glance noticed how he had tried to partition +off his private life from his professional +with burlap draperies. It must have been a +bleak place once, but Ames had taken it and +had performed all of the customary artistic +marvels to conceal its barrenness. Draperies +dipped in eastern dyes, that he had picked up +in the Syrian quarter on Washington Street, +softened the angles of corners. The unsightly +wooden partitions and beams below the peaked +ceiling had acquired under his deft touch a +deep rare old oaken hue the Pre-Raphaelites +might have rested under. On the exterior of +the low door he had even placed a brass +knocker, a real antique from a shop uptown. +Nobody, as Dmitri often said, but Fame would +ever recognize it, and she, the willful damosel, +would never climb those three flights of stairs +unless she came en masquerade as a lark to +tantalize him.</p> + +<p>There was no fire in the deep, black grate. +The windows above the broad seats in the +gable inglenooks were wide open. The view<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> +and the old grand piano that stood crosswise +in the room compensated for all other lacks. +Ames was visibly embarrassed at her unannounced +descent upon his quarters. He sat at +a large, plain table drawn up before the south +light, coatless, collarless, his hair ruffled into +a crest, and ashes everywhere within his arm’s-length +radius. Upon one corner of the table +there dozed a large yellow tomcat, palpably a +nomad.</p> + +<p>“I hope I have not come too soon?” she +asked hesitantly.</p> + +<p>He swept a pile of magazines and papers +from a chair for her, but she chose the high +window-seat.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t that, only I meant to set the stage +for you,” he said ruefully. “I wouldn’t have +had you find me like this for anything. When +Ptolemy and I are alone here working, we just +run a bachelor shop, and forget there are any +other beings in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Make it a dress rehearsal, then. I like it up +here very much.” She looked out at the Square, +the vivid autumn foliage accentuating the red +and gold of the foliage and the vari-colored +dresses of the Italian children playing there. +It looked like some reckless, impressionistic +painting, worked out merely in effective, daring +splashes of color laid on with a palette<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> +knife. From the windows of Maria’s chosen +abode uptown, one gazed down upon an indefinite +row of closed, chill, characterless +dwellings, with no gleam of color from street +to street.</p> + +<p>“I would like to live down here too,” she +said thoughtfully. “It is very different from +anything I have seen in New York before.”</p> + +<p>Ames watched her with eager appreciation. +Her glossy, luxuriant hair waved back from +her low forehead into a loose knot at the nape +of her neck. Her face held the elusive appeal +of La Cigale’s. The memory of the old painting +occurred to him with its appealing beauty +and he felt a sudden protective tenderness +towards this waif of summer’s idleness.</p> + +<p>“It is lonely; that’s the only thing about +it,” he said, coming near her. “If it wasn’t for +Dmitri and the Phelpses I’d throw up the +game sometimes and go West to the smelter.”</p> + +<p>“The smelter; what is that?” she asked +curiously.</p> + +<p>“Where they separate the ore from the +quartz, you know, the real from the slag.”</p> + +<p>“Slag?” she repeated slowly. “Like the +crucible? I know what you mean. I think you +are in it now, here, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Dmitri would love you for that,” he exclaimed +eagerly. “It’s all he talks about, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> +inner meaning of things. Like the crucible, the +winepress, anything you like that means the +big fight where you either make good or go +under. I hate to think it’s just chance. Sometimes +when we were over in France, you +couldn’t help feeling that it was hit or miss. +No matter how clever you were or well trained, +you might be killed by any chance fragment of +shell that strayed your way. It sort of wiped +out the old idea of the plan. Know what I +mean?” He quoted slowly, half under his +breath:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first">“Our times are in His hand,</div> +<div class="verse">Who said, ‘A whole I planned,</div> +<div class="indent">See all, be not afraid.’”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Then, turning quickly to the cat, he lit a +cigarette.</p> + +<p>“Ptolemy, she comes in here and demoralizes +us, old man. I’m getting sentimental.”</p> + +<p>He sat down to the piano carelessly, striking +low minor chords, and then, unlike Jacobelli, +he slipped into the first protesting strains of +the duet from “Bohème.” There was an enthusiasm +and impulsive buoyancy about him +that inspired Carlota to sing even as she had +not when she had stood before the great maestro, +Ames carrying Rudolpho’s answer.</p> + +<p>“Look at me when you sing,” he commanded, +and she shook her head in confusion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>“Does she not look at the candle?” she +asked. “I—I forget when I look at you.”</p> + +<p>But when she had finished, he was almost +humble in his supreme gratitude to whatever +fate had sent her to his lone garret. With +boyish fervor and earnestness he told her the +whole world lay at her feet if only he could +find a way to teach her.</p> + +<p>“I can show you only the first steps of the +way, and your voice is so glorious now, so perfect. +Who taught you how to use it?”</p> + +<p>“Every one sings in Italy,” Carlota said +evasively. “Even the girls at the fountains +and the boys when they go out in the fishing +fleet. I took only a few lessons there.”</p> + +<p>Inwardly, she felt overjoyed at the success +of her ruse, and agreed to come to him twice a +week for lessons if he would accept in payment +whatever she was able to give. But he would +not listen to this.</p> + +<p>“It’s enough to have you as my pupil. When +other people hear you sing and know that I +have taught you, it will bring me all sorts of +other work. I know. Besides, you inspire me. +Yes, you do. I don’t know what it is.” He +drew in a deep breath, watching her. “Guess +we were just a couple of old lazy dubs here, +weren’t we, Ptolemy? I’ve wanted to work. +It’s all been here in my head, till I couldn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> +sleep nights with the themes rampant, but I +couldn’t catch them. They were like fireflies. +Ever try to get them at night? I did when I +was a little chap out West. I always wanted to +train them. Must you go so soon? I didn’t get +your full name the other night. Carlota, the +Marchese called you, didn’t he?”</p> + +<p>“Just call me that,” she told him gravely. +“I would not be allowed to come here if my +people knew. They are very conservative.”</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he said confidently. +“You’ll never use it in your work. I +don’t care just so long as you come. Dmitri +said you never would. He walked down here +last night with me. Queer chap, isn’t he? Did +you like him?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t notice him,” Carlota spoke +thoughtfully, not realizing the purport of her +own words as she looked up at him on the +threshold of the stairs. “I only remembered +you.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> weeks following were filled with a romantic +glamour for them both. Ames never +realized how much his pupil was teaching him. +After he had given her the benefit of what +little knowledge he possessed, Carlota would +coax him from the piano, and letting her own +fingers stray over the keys, would suggest +carelessly:</p> + +<p>“Do you not like it better this way?”</p> + +<p>He never suspected that she was giving him +all of Jacobelli’s tricks in teaching, all she +knew of the great maestro’s art of technique. +He only knew that the fame of his pupil was +spreading through the Quarter and that people +were coming up the narrow stairs to inquire +his rates as teacher of voice culture.</p> + +<p>“If I can only get enough to keep the +friendly wolf jolly and contented, I can find +time to work on my opera,” he told her happily. +“I owe it all to you, though. You’ve got +such a perfect voice naturally, you don’t need +a teacher, and here everybody who hears you +sing will give me the credit for it.”</p> + +<p>Carlota smiled at him silently, delighted +that her visits to the studio were bringing him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> +even a glimmer of success. To her they were +all that filled her days now with expectancy. +Maria’s ill health continued to prevent her +from calling for Carlota every day at the uptown +studio, and while she longed to tell the +Marchese, she feared that even his solicitude +might put an end to the only gleam of romance +or adventure that had come to her. So far as +she knew, no one had discovered her visits to +the Square, yet never did she leave the arched +doorway of her home that the nonchalant +stranger did not follow her. Patiently, without +haste or apparent malevolence, he shadowed +her to Jacobelli’s or downtown. Sometimes in +the morning, he would lounge at Cecco’s cigar +store around the corner on Madison Avenue, +smoking his endless store of curious, long, thin +cigarettes. From Cecco’s one could look +through the middle of the block towards Fifth +Avenue, over the tops of intervening fences. +The only apartment house was the one where +Maria Roma and Carlota lived. And while he +chatted over the latest juggling with the fates +of nations and peoples overseas, he would forget +to look at Cecco rolling cigarettes, and eye +the distant fire escapes like a bird of prey, +gauging the flight.</p> + +<p>One day, as she came from Ames’s place, +the impulse swept over Carlota to see the old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> +Marchese and tell him. He would understand, +she was sure, and she longed to have him know +Griffeth well, to appreciate his work and help +him.</p> + +<p>Through Maria and Jacobelli she knew +that even in New York, where the power of +great wealth dominated the will of the people +through its manifold channels of politics, society, +and charity, yet there was an altar +erected even here to the unknown god of +truth, and the Marchese stood ever as a high +priest of the eternal verities.</p> + +<p>“You must not be discouraged, my dear,” +he had told her one afternoon at tea beside +Maria’s couch. “Look beneath the surface of +things. The brass band is always at the head +of the procession. Once one has escaped its +clamor, one may pay attention to the motive +behind the parade, yes? There is always in any +race, in any period, a certain group of people, +in all walks of life, who worship truth wherever +manifest, in art or the grace of right living. It +is absurd to claim that any class has a monopoly +of this spirit. Ogden Ward is a multi-millionaire, +doubtless a thorough robber baron +in his way, yet he serves a certain purpose +through his fascination for the beautiful and +rarest in art. Some day, when, God willing, he +passes on, perhaps his collections will be given<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> +back to the people. I can do little except encourage +this spirit wherever I find it. Casanova, +of the Opera, is a noble fellow, yet he +must perforce kowtow when the mighty atoms +on the subscribers’ list say they will have this +or that. But that does not prevent Casanova +from his personal worship of real art, you see. +I know him very well, indeed, and some day +he will meet you.”</p> + +<p>Remembering this, Carlota stepped into a +shop on Eighth Street and telephoned to the +Lafayette. It was the one golden moment +when she felt she must see the Marchese and +tell him everything, take him back with her to +the old studio and make him listen to Ames’s +compositions for the new opera. But at that +particular instant the Marchese was meeting +Ogden Ward at his club by appointment, and +the message was left on a slip in his box at the +hotel unheeded.</p> + +<p>“I want you to meet Count Jurka; used to +be with the Bulgarian Legation, remember. +He has proven to be a very valuable agent +along the new lines of readjustment. I met him +in Egypt first in connection with the Rhodopis +emeralds. They were found in the royal +mummy, and there was some argument in +connection with them. I had furnished the +means for the research work and I have the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> +emeralds. He is quite a savant in his way when +it comes to the history of famous jewels.”</p> + +<p>“I do not care for them,” returned the old +Marchese blandly, as he ensconced himself in a +deep leather armchair and smiled. “Relics of +barbarism, my dear Ward; rings in noses and +bangles on leaping toes, merely a variation of +the same impulse in humanity to decorate itself +that we see to-day in certain types of +women.”</p> + +<p>“And men also. Say it.” Ward leaned forward +on the polished table and laid a small +leather case before him. “I like to carry unset +stones around in my pockets, not for decoration. +What would you call me, Marchese?”</p> + +<p>“An idolator, either of the beautiful or of +the peculiar quality of concentrated value that +seems to lie in jewels.”</p> + +<p>Ward lifted out two pearls, wrapped in +tissue papers, and held them in the hollow of +his palm.</p> + +<p>“You’re right. Here are the largest gems +from the collections of the murdered Empress +Elizabeth of Austria. They always darkened +when she wore them. She had them dipped +regularly in a perforated casket into the sea to +restore the luster. It is not alone the value of +them that interests me. I like stones that have +tragic stories connected with them. There was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> +a necklace of pearls around the throat of Marie +Stuart as she was being led to execution. I +have never been able to find them. Jurka is +also a collector and lover of gems from the historic +standpoint. He is standing by the desk +now, the tall fellow, fair-haired. Do you recognize +him?”</p> + +<p>The Marchese looked through the arched +doorway at the man Ward had designated. He +was trying to place where he had seen him, +and suddenly smiled, one forefinger at his +forehead.</p> + +<p>“He was at the Lafayette a week ago Saturday, +dining with Palmieri, Collector of the +Port, a delightful person.”</p> + +<p>“Well posted on the valuation of jewels,” +Ward remarked laconically. He paused to +light his favorite pipe with the air of assured +bonhomie he assumed when relaxed. “How is +Carlota?”</p> + +<p>“She progresses well.”</p> + +<p>“Why not after two years under Jacobelli? +He tells me her technique is faultless, but she +lacks temperament.”</p> + +<p>“He does not know her,” the Marchese +answered placidly. “The temperament is there +dormant. It needs but the awakening. She is +still a child.”</p> + +<p>“Her mother married before she was her age.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>“And never sang at all. Waken the Paoli +nature in a girl like Carlota and you will lose +her. We do not wish her to experience love, to +run the gamut of emotion—it is fatal to a +woman of genius. Then, too, afterwards, you +always reach her through the husband. Husbands +of geniuses—ah, my dear Ward, I +could tell you of many catastrophes.”</p> + +<p>“Not marriage.” Ward knocked the tobacco +from his coat sleeve that had fallen there while +he had filled his pipe. “An affair possibly. A +quick flurry of passion that might sweep over +her like a clarifying fire, burning out the underbrush +in her nature. You might arrange a quiet +little dinner at my apartment with Signora +Roma and Carlota. I do not think I have +heard her sing lately.”</p> + +<p>He rose at the approach of Count Jurka and +presented him. The old Marchese was genial +and full of welcome. Had he not seen him already +down in the haunt of the selective with +Palmieri?</p> + +<p>“I did not see you there.” Jurka spoke with +a very clear, careful enunciation, his large +blue eyes never winking as he met the other’s +pleased scrutiny. “Palmieri is interested in +some fête for Italian child sufferers of the war—very +worthy object. I wished him to meet +Mrs. Carrington Nevins, who has been most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> +helpful to me in organizing committees for my +own stricken land.”</p> + +<p>As they sat down Ward began without preamble, +his fingers pressing nervously on the +small leather case containing the pearls.</p> + +<p>“I told Jurka I thought you could assist +him. He is gathering data on rubies. Do you +know of one called the Zarathustra? It is a +perfect pigeon blood, second to the largest in +the world.”</p> + +<p>“I am absolutely ignorant concerning jewels,” +smiled the Marchese indulgently. “Consider +me a perverted mind.”</p> + +<p>Jurka leaned slightly towards him.</p> + +<p>“I have already traced it to Italy, but many +years ago. It was part of a collection, rubies +and pearls. I thought it might have come over +here and been disposed of to Mr. Ward. It is +almost impossible now to find out what has +become of most royal jewels, I mean the historic +ones. Sooner or later, I have understood, +if their tale of tragedy is terrible enough, they +find their way here.”</p> + +<p>Ward did not pick up the opening. Sauntering +away from the club up the Avenue, the +Marchese pondered later, not upon the Zarathustra +ruby, but on Ward’s invitation. At +first he hesitated at a crossing, wishing he +might talk it over with Maria, but finally contenting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> +himself with telephoning to her. Carlota +caught the rising inflection of exultation +as Maria accepted for them both.</p> + +<p>“Certainly I’m well enough to go,” she +cried; then, hanging up the receiver, “Ah, beloved +child, you do not understand the conquest +you have made already. But it will not +do to appear too eager. You must learn to act +like your grandmother, distant, gracious, always +the queen.”</p> + +<p>But Carlota was supremely indifferent to the +favor shown her by Ward. For weeks she had +been full of strange, gay little moods and sudden, +tempestuous caresses that left Maria +breathless and speculative. She smiled over +her shoulder now, brushing her long dark +curls before the Venetian mirror.</p> + +<p>“Surely, bella mia”—Signora Roma spoke +with emphasis—“surely you comprehend +what this means to your progress. There are +yet two years before you, possibly more, before +you make your début. Therefore, you +must be diplomatic and save your independence +until you are assured that the race is won. +You must appear perfect at Mr. Ward’s dinner. +I will dress you like the starlight, like the +pearl from the sea, très ingénue, so he will see +the great sensation you will make.”</p> + +<p>Carlota laughed teasingly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>“I would love to make my début in some +splendid barbaric opera, where I could wear +cloth of gold and armlets, bangles. I wish I +could sing Semiramide at the very beginning, +or Fedora, and you, you adorable old tanta, +will probably persuade Jacobelli to make me +bow as Juliette or Marguerite.”</p> + +<p>“The Veronese are very dark like you, and, +thank God, you will still be slender and maiden-like,” +sighed Maria reflectively. “It is a wonderful +opportunity to impress Mr. Ward. You +had better effect Juliette that night.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t like this thing you call opportunity. +I like, as the Marchese says, what is to be will +be. I like the inevitable. It must have been +delightful to feel your destiny was written in +the stars.” She pinned her hair up carelessly. +“Mr. Ward is the only person from whom we +have been compelled to borrow money. He will +be repaid amply—in money.”</p> + +<p>“Only a person who could appreciate the +priceless value of such a voice as yours could +have had such faith. He is the greatest patron +of the arts in the world—”</p> + +<p>“I hate patronage. It simply means that he +can pay the highest price for what he desires, +that is all.” Carlota turned to her stormily.</p> + +<p>“Another may have a million times more +appreciation, more love, more yearning to aid,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> +and still stand with hands bound because he +has no money. I hate patronage. I would rather +sell every jewel in your treasure chests than +give a man like Ogden Ward the right to order +my appearance at his dinner.”</p> + +<p>At Maria’s gesture of despair her mood +changed instantly to one of coaxing tenderness. +To please her only would she go, not because +Ward wished her to. She had hurried +home after telephoning the Marchese, and his +message had come when she had felt most rebellious. +It had become increasingly difficult +for her to get away for her lessons with Ames +twice a week. To-day Signora Roma had been +more curious than ever, and it had taken the +most elusive of excuses to soothe her. All manner +she had made up so far, little necessary +trips to the art shops, the galleries, the quiet +cathedral, feeling that she was indeed playing +Columbine in the garret studio down on the +Square. Yet she was almost forced to attend a +dinner given by Ward as if it were an honor +bestowed by him. This they would urge her to +do, Maria, Jacobelli, and even the Marchese; +yet, if they knew of her visits to Ames, she +would be compelled to stop them because +they were unconventional.</p> + +<p>Almost in a spirit of audacious bravado, she +deliberately started for the studio the following<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> +morning. It would be a surprise to Ames, +and she wanted to talk over the dinner with +him. For the first time in weeks the watching +figure was absent from its customary post near +Cecco’s store. When she left the ’bus, it +seemed as if she could have lifted her whole +heart to the Quarter in relief. It was like some +enchanted realm to her where hopes and +dreams were tangible, and only facts untrue. +Spring stood tiptoe on the Arch and scattered +her soul-disturbing germs abroad. She knelt at +the edge of the old fountain and mimed at herself +in the water that had just been permitted +to splash therein from the far-off springs of +Askohan quite as if they had flowed from Castalian +founts. She flirted with the rainbow that +hangs over the leaping spray on sunny mornings, +and wigwagged joyous discontent to every +possible shepherd in the distance.</p> + +<p>From a flower-stand at the corner Carlota +recklessly bought daffodils and narcissus. +They had grown in phalanxes along the wall of +Tittani. Almost she had decided to tell Maria +and Jacobelli she would never go to the dinner, +never accept any more aid from Mr. Ward, +when suddenly she was arrested by the sight +of a dark gray limousine standing at the curb +in front of Ames’s residence. Clinging around +it was a flock of little Italian children, trying to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> +peer into the interior sanctum, a study in suède +leather with dark red Jacqueminot roses in +slender French gray silver vases in each corner.</p> + +<p>She hesitated outside the studio door. A +clear, well-modulated voice came from within, +a woman’s voice.</p> + +<p>“Twice a week, then, Mr. Ames, and we +will not speak of terms. I have heard of your +wonderful success with beginners, and Nathalie’s +temperament requires an environment +like this, unusual and bizarre, don’t you know? +It wilts at any touch of the customary or mediocre +that you find in most musical studios uptown. +Here you fairly radiate atmosphere.”</p> + +<p>She hesitated just as Ames opened the door. +He looked flushed and elated, and seized her +hand to present her to his callers.</p> + +<p>“Oh, but we have already heard of you, Miss—er—Carlota!” +Mrs. Carrington Nevins +exclaimed. “This must be your little Italian +pupil who sings so charmingly, Mr. Ames. +Chandos told us all about you at his tea last +week, how you came and went like a little +flitting city sparrow, and not even Mr. Ames +knew your real name.”</p> + +<p>Carlota stood in silence, her chin lifted, her +long lashes downcast as she drew off her gloves +slowly. The daffodils and narcissus lay in the +curve of her arm. She caught a little smile on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> +the face of the girl standing with Ames, this +tall, fair girl with the ice-blue eyes, and a wave +of fiery scorn swept over her at this invasion of +her own particular haunt, Columbine’s special +chimney-pot.</p> + +<p>“You must hear her sing,” Ames said positively, +going to the piano. “Lay off your +things, Carlota. I want you just to try that +little barcarolle you taught me.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot sing to-day, Mr. Ames.” Carlota +met his surprised eyes serenely. “It is impossible.”</p> + +<p>“But just this one—” He stopped abruptly, +warned by the expression of her face.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carrington Nevins raised her lorgnette, +the slenderest excuse for one in carven tortoise +shell and platinum, gazing at the girl amusedly.</p> + +<p>“My dear, I believe you are temperamental +like all singers should be. It is your prerogative. +But you must remember all that Mr. +Ames is doing for you, and try to obey him. +Isn’t she a dear little thing, Nathalie?”</p> + +<p>“Do you live right down here in the Sicilian +quarter?” asked Nathalie eagerly. “It’s so +funny. I made mother drive through there to-day +and the car made quite a sensation.”</p> + +<p>Carlota turned her head and looked at her +in a haughty, detached way.</p> + +<p>“I have never been there. I am a Roman.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Carlota</span> stood aside to let them pass down +the narrow stairs. In the half light from the +dusty skylight overhead she seemed like a +shadow excepting for the light in her eyes. The +sunlight from the studio’s south window sent a +lane of gold through the open door, and she +watched Nathalie as she laid her hand in +Ames’s lingeringly.</p> + +<p>“I shall love it here,” she heard her say, in +her rather plaintive, appealing way. “And I +want you to be sure and stay for dinner Tuesday. +You can suggest things for our Italian +fête next month, can’t he, mother?”</p> + +<p>“I shall be delighted if I can be of any service,” +Ames told her, as he followed down the +four flights of stairs to the waiting car.</p> + +<p>Even Ptolemy seemed to catch the contagion +of trouble in the air and leaped stealthily +out of her way to the top of the piano. Carlota +waited, standing in the center of the floor, her +eyes ablaze with scorn as Ames entered.</p> + +<p>“You were exactly like old Pietro, my grandmother’s +courier,” she told him. “I have never +seen you like that before. Who are these people? +Why did you ask me to sing for them?”</p> + +<p>He swept her a low bow jubilantly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>“Dear, it means ten dollars a lesson. That +is the Mrs. Carrington Nevins and her only +daughter. She will bring me other pupils, too, +from her crowd out on the north shore. You’re +my mascot.”</p> + +<p>“Did you try her voice?” She spoke very +softly. “Do you intend giving her lessons?”</p> + +<p>“I certainly do.” He began rummaging in +the wall cupboard after his stock of china. +“We’re going to celebrate my first real success. +I’m going to the market and buy a spread +and telephone Dmitri to come down, and you +shall preside and sing.”</p> + +<p>“Did you try her voice?” demanded Carlota +again, her voice a warning of smouldering +anger.</p> + +<p>He nodded his head happily. “She has a very +appealing quality, a light lyric soprano, well +pitched and true. Of course she has had a lot +of training.”</p> + +<p>Carlota deliberately swept a jar of golden +tulips from the top of the piano to the floor in +crashing fragments. She herself had bought +the jar for him, a squat plaster one, painted in +dull-gold and Tuscan fruit tints. It had been +her whim to keep it filled with flowers. There +had been a small urn like it before a statue of +Daphne in the garden at Tittani, and she had +always as a child kept fresh flowers there, she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> +told him. Now, it lay like a symbol of broken +faith at her feet. As Ames swung about in +amazement, she drew on her gloves with superb +indifference.</p> + +<p>“Will you kindly tell me the meaning of +this?” he demanded hotly.</p> + +<p>“It means—nothing, signor, nothing at +all. I have an engagement to-day. I cannot +take my lesson from you.”</p> + +<p>But he saw the trouble and pain in her eyes +instantly and caught her hands in his.</p> + +<p>“Now, listen, Carlota, you know all this +means to me—to us. They would never have +come at all if it hadn’t been for you. You +heard what she said. Chandos is the English +painter downstairs. He’s heard you sing and +has told them about it.”</p> + +<p>Slowly the tears gathered heavily to her +lashes. She had given him the full benefit of all +she had learned from the great Jacobelli, and +now he would give it to this girl for a few paltry +dollars.</p> + +<p>“Why do you have to take her when she +has everything? Go down through the Quarter +and find some poor singer. Take even the children. +But give it freely, not for money. I cannot +bear to see you acting like old Pietro before +such people. Grateful? Do you think that Jacobelli +was ever grateful in his life?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>“What do you know about Signor Jacobelli?” +he demanded teasingly. “You’re angry +because she called you a city sparrow, my +nightingale, and you’re right, but I can’t afford +to turn down such a chance. I’ve got to +live here if I am to work on my opera and succeed, +and this is enough for me.”</p> + +<p>“You may do as you like, but I shall not +come here as long as that girl takes lessons +from you.”</p> + +<p>“But can’t you see how it will benefit us +both?” He stopped before her impatiently. +“You are my star pupil. Perhaps I might even +persuade Mrs. Nevins to let you sing at one of +her musicales. If I could get her interested in +my opera, think what it would mean for me, +dear—”</p> + +<p>“I did not think you were of the kind who +seek patronage,” she said slowly. “I will not +come again. Not for one instant would I sing +for that woman. You have no ideals. I believed +you were altogether different.”</p> + +<p>“Carlota, come back,” he called after her; +but the door shut with a slam that sent Ptolemy +scurrying for cover, and he stopped short, +frowning with a quick, boyish resentment at +her suspicion of him. Although there had never +been a definite declaration of love between +them, yet their whole acquaintance had ripened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> +in an atmosphere of romantic glamour, +a piquant, elusive mutual acceptance of each +other idealized. He could not have understood +the surging resentment in Carlota’s heart as +she went uptown to take her real lesson from +Jacobelli. Once in the Square she had tossed +the jonquils and daffodils broadcast to the +children around the fountain. Her mind was a +tumult of emotions, of hot rebellion against +Ames’s acceptance of her coming as a gift of +Fate that was his due. She knew her identity +was a mystery to him. He had told her of asking +Phelps, and being told she was a protégée +of the Marchese Veracci a young Italian singer +in whom he was interested; that was all.</p> + +<p>He had all of the artist’s selfish point of +view, she thought. He had not even caught the +personal side of her anger. He saw merely the +professional jealousy of one singer towards another +in her antagonism towards Nathalie +Nevins, and this attitude added fuel to Carlota’s +raging indignation against him. He +could not even grasp or understand all that the +visits had meant to her, all that she had given +him gladly. He had not even been musician +enough to distinguish between the quality of +her voice and that of Nathalie. And suddenly +it flashed across her that possibly Jacobelli +was right; that she did lack power and dramatic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> +force, feeling, passion, all that made the +really great singer.</p> + +<p>When she reached the studio she flung the +outer door wide even as Maria might have +done. Signor Jacobelli was at the piano amusing +himself. The taunting, passionate notes of +the “Habanera” crashed upon her as she +stood a moment transformed utterly from the +somber, unawakened girl he had last met. And +in an instant she had picked up the melody, +provocative, imperative, daring, sauntering +into the room with all of Carmen’s tricks at +her finger-tips, at her tongue’s end. Jacobelli +turned quickly, catching the new note of passion +and power. She did not appear even to see +him, but flung her whole soul into the song and +the underlying tragedy of its motif.</p> + +<p>“Brava!” murmured the old maestro, +huskily. “Try now the ‘Dance of the Tambourines.’”</p> + +<p>As she finished the gypsy song, he sprang +from the bench, kissing her hands in ecstasy.</p> + +<p>“I do not know, I do not ask from whence +this has come to you, but I thank God it is +there at last, the divine note for which I have +prayed. So you shall sing for Mr. Ward at his +dinner, ma bella, and take him by storm.”</p> + +<p>Carlota’s eyes glowed with anger as she +threw aside her cloak and hat. She looked for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> +the instant like a reincarnation of the youthful +Paoli, as he remembered her back at La Scala.</p> + +<p>“I will not sing for him or be shown off to +him any more,” she told him hotly. “I detest +him and all people like him.”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli threw back his head, laughing delightedly.</p> + +<p>“Aha! Temper?” he cried. “It is the beginning +of temperament, thanks be to God. We +expect it, my dear, sooner or later. The artistic +temperament is like the resistless forces of nature, +the storm, the volcano, the tidal wave, +the lightning. Life would be tame without +them in spite of the danger, would it not? We +crave the thrill. Never have I heard the great +dramatic quality before in your voice. Ah, you +shall sing all the glorious colorful rôles they +have had to shelve because there was no one to +sing them.”</p> + +<p>Carlota had turned from him and gone to +the west windows, the tears blinding her sight. +Even the agony of one’s heart, then, had a +commercial value. Life was merely the arena +where one gave all for applause, where human +emotions merely added to the thrill of suspense. +The deeper the reality of the knife-thrust, +the cleverer the counterfeit acting.</p> + +<p>“I hate it all,” she sobbed brokenly. “I +wish we could go back to Tittani. Tell them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> +my voice is hopeless, maestro, and let me +go.”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli lit a cigarette deliberately, eyeing +her thoughtfully. He tipped a chair backwards +and seated himself, rocking slowly on two of +its legs.</p> + +<p>“Who is he?” he asked gently.</p> + +<p>Carlota looked back at him in angry silence, +startled into caution at his words, but he +waved one plump hand at her airily and reassuringly.</p> + +<p>“Remember, my child, I have known both +your mother and grandmother. History moves +in recurrent cycles, even the history of human +hearts, and particularly when we consider +heredity. I talked with Margherita Paoli when +first she took Bianca from the convent. She +told me her theory of life for a woman of genius +and I agreed with her perfectly. Love in its +perfection is the supreme sacrifice of self, art is +the elevation of self, the crowning of self. They +are at war eternally. So I told her, and she said +she would keep Bianca safe behind the wall of +Tittani while she studied. Never should the +danger of love approach her until her success +was assured, and this creed was impressed +upon your mother, my dear, with what result? +Even while we two fools prated, she was listening +in the garden to the boy Peppino and was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> +gone before her mother even guessed their +love.”</p> + +<p>Carlota turned back into the room suddenly, +her eyes brilliant with eager appeal.</p> + +<p>“Tell me who John Tennant was?” she +asked him. “Why did my nurse use to tell me +that no woman could escape over the wall of +Tittani without meeting the tragic fate of the +Princess Fiametta? Oh, you are all so blind! +You treat me like a baby, and never think I +hear or see anything. Don’t you suppose I ever +think or reason? I used to go down to the end +of the garden looking seaward, to that little +stone house where they told me he had lived +and died. Once I went in when I found the +door unlocked. Everything was just as he had +left it, and while I was wondering what it all +meant, my grandmother came in from the little +walk along the terrace above and I knew she +had been weeping. Then Maria told me only +his name. Who was he?”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli made a magnificent gesture.</p> + +<p>“I may not tell you. The secret of his being +there was only known to his friend Wallace, +the Marchese, and myself. I found out by accident +when I sought her and implored her to +return to the stage. She loved him, and he +never even knew that she was near him in the +garden or that it was her love and bounty he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> +lived upon. Ah, the wonderful woman she was! +Only as he died, unconscious in her arms, +could she speak to him or caress him, and he +never knew. Think of her pride, imperial in its +abnegation.”</p> + +<p>“But my mother was happier.”</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Who can say? Women are complex. Bianca +was all tenderness, a flower of love. She did not +pass the walls to seek adventure, but to escape +from ambition. When I first met her fresh from +La Pietà and heard your grandmother’s plans, +I thought, never, never, with such eyes and +lips. And I told her the lines from ‘Romeo et +Juliette’; you know them?</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first2">“‘With love’s light wing did I o’erperch these walls,</div> +<div class="verse">For stony limits cannot hold love out.’”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>“I am glad she escaped!” flamed back Carlota. +“Even my grandmother, who knew in her +own heart that love was all to a woman, would +have shut her own child away from its beauty +and truth—”</p> + +<p>“From its agony and devastating influence,” +Jacobelli protested placidly. “To the +woman of genius this is so, my dear. You cannot +discuss it logically because you have never +experienced love. Even I have never loved to +distraction, always with reason, and I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> +been most happy. I have buried two beautiful, +gifted women who adored me.”</p> + +<p>Carlota turned suddenly away, afraid of the +flood of words on her lips that she longed to +pour out. It would only arouse suspicion +against her if she went too far, and already the +reaction was setting in, and she felt a great +weariness of body and spirit. Were they not +right, after all, she thought, as she stood by +the window looking riverward? Somewhere +she had read that the yearning after ideals was +merely the soul’s subconscious memory of another +life. Was it then foolish to seek a path to +the stars through the world of everyday selfishness +and commercialism? Griffeth accepted +patronage gladly for the sake of his operetta. +She would have had him finish it in the high +seclusion of the garret studio and win recognition +and fame as his right once it had been submitted +to the directors of the Opera. Instead +he must seek the favor of persons like Mrs. +Nevins, must add the weight of their influence +before the magic doors would open to him. +And in order to win Mrs. Nevins’s interest and +friendship, he must give lessons to her daughter +and constantly flatter and compromise with +his own critical faculty.</p> + +<p>She who loved directness and clarity of vision +and the straight, white road ahead, faced<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> +suddenly the devious, twisting path that led to +success and popularity. Yet there never was a +straight road that led to a mountain peak, she +thought. Always the winding way, the compromise +with risk and danger until one reached +the summit of desire. She smiled slowly, and +turned to Jacobelli, smoking in long, leisurely +puffs until she should have changed her mind.</p> + +<p>“I will go to Mr. Ward’s dinner and sing for +him,” she said.</p> + +<p>He laid aside his pipe.</p> + +<p>“The caprice and passion of the woman always +move in a circle. Wait but patiently, and +behold, she is back at the starting-point, and +is willing. My dear, you show common sense +and astuteness. Forget all this love nonsense. I +know not what had roused you, but put it +away from you. Ogden Ward can open every +door for you in the operatic world. I would not +be too indifferent and petulant with him. Ah, +if I could only teach you your grandmother’s +queenly way, the mingling of alluring charm +and condescension, the aloofness of her +favor—”</p> + +<p>Carlota drew on her gloves, watching him +the while.</p> + +<p>“I may toss roses from the top of the wall; +that is it, signor?” she said gravely. “I shall +try to remember.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ward</span> had handed over the details of the dinner +to his Japanese butler, Ishigaki, who presided +over the town house of the millionaire.</p> + +<p>In spite of her dislike of him and reluctance +to accept favors, Carlota felt a thrill of almost +childish excitement over the novelty of it all as +she entered the upper salon which had been +turned into a private banqueting-hall for the +occasion.</p> + +<p>The walls were hung with dull-gold, Oriental +draperies, weighted down with embroidery. A +glow from hidden shaded lights left the room +in a twilight haze of amethyst and saffron. The +air was fragrant with faint, strange perfumes. +Brazier lamps burned somberly in stone lanterns +half revealed behind red and gold lacquered +screens. On the surface of a pool sunken +in the center of the teakwood dining-table, +half-opened lotus buds floated, and curious, +iridescent-plumaged waterfowl stood amongst +them, dazed and hesitating, goldfish darting at +their feet, and tiny turtles scrambling aimlessly +up the sides of the pool.</p> + +<p>“I hoped it might amuse you,” Ward said +when he found Carlota bending over the table<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> +in delight. He had never seen her in evening +dress before, and Maria had spared no pains or +thought for this that might be her night of +conquest.</p> + +<p>“You shall be Juliette in her triumph,” the +old singer had said. “Cloth of silver with a veil +of lace from the Colonna wedding chests. And +the very cap of seed pearls which your grandmother +bought from the old antique dealer in +Verona near the bridge as you leave the palace. +And just a girdle of filigree silver, set in pearls +with tassels of them. But for your throat, nothing +at all. It is encircled by beauty quite +enough. First I thought to let you wear her +chain of rubies with the black cross. Then the +necklace of opals. She loved them. It came +from Russia and was part of the great Catherine’s +treasure. One of the Orloffs gave it to +Paoli. I would not have you wear anything to-night +that might bring the evil eye upon you.”</p> + +<p>Carlota had laughed at her earnest insistence. +She felt no interest in Ward himself, only +a deep-rooted resentment against the circumstances +which forced her to accept his hospitality +when she disliked him. Even now she +merely smiled at his words, and turned eagerly +to greet the old Marchese. The latter’s gray +eyebrows arched with approval when he beheld +the result of Maria’s costuming.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>“So soon you grow into your kingdom, mia +carina,” he exclaimed half teasingly, half musingly. +“Behold, yesterday, Mr. Ward, it was a +child whom I cajoled with chocolate almonds. +I do assure you, she was the utter gourmand +for them, rummaging into my pockets like a +squirrel, and now we bow to her sovereignty, +is it not so?”</p> + +<p>“The bloom fulfills the promise of the bud,” +Ward answered gravely, and Carlota’s eyes +held a startled wonderment as he gazed down +at her. It seemed to-night as if his glance even +held a covert challenge that aroused every +element of resentment in her nature. Throughout +the dinner she was reticent and unresponsive. +The Marchese, as always, was so absorbed +in his little anecdotes and sallies of wit +that Ward’s attentions escaped him. Maria observed, +but gave no sign of annoyance; rather, +she was filled with pride at the influence of her +beloved child over so great a man as Ward. +Jacobelli ate and drank as a connoisseur, paying +little attention to the conversation about +him, but relaxing under the mellowing influence +of Ward’s wines and Ishigaki’s solicitous +ministrations. Finally he caught Carlota’s refusal +to sing as her host urged her after they +rose from dinner.</p> + +<p>“It is no time to-night to show caprice, cara<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> +mia,” he exclaimed pompously. “Come, I +would have you sing and prove to Mr. Ward +how soon you will triumph at the Opera.”</p> + +<p>Carlota’s eyes sought the Marchese’s in +swift appeal, but he merely nodded to her encouragingly +above the lifted rim of his glass of +old Amontillado.</p> + +<p>“Miss Trelango is only afraid that you will +put her through your professional paces, Jacobelli,” +Ward interposed easily. “Show the +Marchese and Signora Roma those new photographs +in the east gallery of the excavations at +Rhodopis. You will find the emeralds we took +from the royal mummies there also. Ishigaki +will open the case for you.”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli smiled understandingly, and led +the way. The Japanese moved noiselessly +about the salon, turning off a light here and +there until only those in the stone lanterns +gave a nebulous glow. When they were alone, +Ward moved one of the lacquered screens +from its place, disclosing a tall panel of solid +gold embroidery set in ebony. Flamingoes +moved through sunlit marshes.</p> + +<p>“This will amuse you,” he said, stepping +upon a convex spring set in the floor. The panel +slipped silently up. “This is my favorite music-room.” +He led the way through the narrow +door into the interior. It was domed with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> +stained glass, a fan fretwork above the Empire +grand piano assuring perfect acoustics. The +walls were in flat dull gold, with peacocks and +gray apes in conventionalized designs, hand-painted. +A rock crystal vase held irises, gold +and purple. The light filtered cunningly +through the stained glass in rays of twilight +splendor. “I have kept this room for you the +first time you should sing to me alone.”</p> + +<p>Carlota closed her eyes as she seated herself +at the piano, the memory of the little garret +studio of Ames a vivid, poignant hurt to her +pride. He to whom she had given all her faith +and love, and he had held it so lightly, where +to this man no effort was too great to win her +favor.</p> + +<p>“Jacobelli tells me you have gained. Sing +what you love best yourself.”</p> + +<p>And instead of choosing some grand-opera +aria, she sang “O Sole Mio,” as she had learned +it from Ames. Over their lunches in the studio, +he would sing it to her, lunches of bread and +fruit and salad, glorified by love and song. Out +in the east gallery Jacobelli caught the air and +frowned, but the Marchese inclined his head to +listen contentedly. As the last notes ended, +Ward bent over her suddenly, his arms around +her, his lips seeking hers dominantly. Crushed +in his powerful embrace, she strove to free herself,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> +but Ward had waited two years for this +moment, and she felt her strength leave her as +he held her. The crystal vase crashed behind +him as he tripped backwards over the slender +stand, her hand holding his face from her.</p> + +<p>“Maria!” she called. “Maria! Come to me!”</p> + +<p>“Let her alone,” warned Jacobelli, placing +himself at the door of the gallery. “She must +learn poise and command of herself.”</p> + +<p>Maria glared at him, infuriated.</p> + +<p>“Mother of God, when the child needs me!” +she cried, and sped along the salon to the inner +room. The Marchese’s glance met that of the +maestro with troubled questioning.</p> + +<p>“Surely, he would not attempt anything to +alarm her. You do not think—” The old Italian +spread out his stout, expressive hands.</p> + +<p>“I do not think when I am with such a man +as Ogden Ward. He is a law to himself.”</p> + +<p>Veracci’s expression changed instantly. +From the easy, genial old diplomat there +seemed to fall over his face the mask of the +soldier.</p> + +<p>“No man is that,” he answered. “I would +hold him accountable if he has annoyed the +child.”</p> + +<p>Before Maria had reached them, Carlota +had released herself. She turned to him with +clenched hands, her face white with anger.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>“Take me home, tanta!” she exclaimed. +“I—I am not well.”</p> + +<p>Ward regarded them both with amused +speculation.</p> + +<p>“You are temperamental, my dear, perhaps +a trifle gauche also, too much the gamine in +your play.” He held out one hand to show the +scratch that ran like a scarlet thread along the +skin. “Tell Jacobelli I say it is time to prepare +for her début.”</p> + +<p>Carlota stood with her back to the piano, her +eyes filled with quick tears, Maria’s caressing +hand on her arm to check her.</p> + +<p>“I do not need your permission,” she said +passionately. “I have the voice and I will go +to Casanova myself, and tell him who I am. +He will hear me. And I will pay you back +everything. You do not know that I can easily. +I have my grandmother’s jewels—”</p> + +<p>“But, my poor foolish one,” cried Maria, +“Casanova would not give you standing-room +in his chorus if you went to him without the +backing of money and patronage.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will go back to Italy. Where is the +Marchese, Maria?” She spoke with sudden +quietness and dignity. “I am sorry, Mr. Ward. +Doubtless the fault is mine. I do not seem to +have learned my part according to the rôle expected +of me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>Ward bowed as she passed him, his own face +tense with repression. Out in the long gallery +Jacobelli waited, detaining the Marchese over +the collection of emeralds. Carlota pleaded a +sudden faintness to account for her departure +and he accompanied them down to Jacobelli’s +waiting car, returning for a final glass of his +favorite cordial in Ward’s library.</p> + +<p>“You are not only the art lover supreme,” +the old gentleman said genially, ensconcing +himself in a deep armchair, “but likewise you +know how to select the rare, the unusual. Before +I had the enjoyment of our personal acquaintance, +I had heard of you as an eccentric, +that you carried about in your pockets loose +pearls worth thousands, merely to touch and +gaze on them when you were in the critical +moment of some great financial deal. Is it so?”</p> + +<p>Ward smiled non-committally.</p> + +<p>“I have collected pearls amongst other +things.”</p> + +<p>“Then perhaps you noticed the cap our +sweet protégée wore to-night, the Juliette +mode, a network of pearls? That is a bit of +very delicate craftsmanship, sixteenth-century +work. Margherita Paoli’s collection was +thought marvelous in her day. Every piece has +its own history. She left it intact for Carlota.”</p> + +<p>“Where is it?” The unwinking, light gray<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> +eyes of the financier watched every shade of +expression on his guest’s face.</p> + +<p>“I was not in the confidence of the Contessa,” +responded the Marchese suavely, almost +regretfully, as he touched the ash from +his cigarette tip and watched it fall on the +curled leaf of gold repoussé.</p> + +<p>Carlota leaned her head back on the suède +cushion in Jacobelli’s car, gazing out at the +Avenue’s lights as they flashed by. It had been +raining, and they glowed through the wet +glass in prismatic hues like in a spectrum. +Maria’s arm was close about her, but she was +silent, inwardly frightened and disturbed at +the dénouement to the dinner. But Jacobelli +was elated and highly amused. He occupied +the uptown seat himself, and sat with a hand +resting on each knee, complacent and benignant.</p> + +<p>“Cara mia, I salute!” he exclaimed happily. +“You are an actress as well as a singer. You +could not possibly have entertained him better +or interested him more piquantly.”</p> + +<p>“I did not try to interest him,” Carlota replied, +wearily. “I hate him and the look in his +eyes.”</p> + +<p>She drew in her breath sharply with a tremor +of dread, and returned the quick, understanding +pressure of Maria’s hand. But the maestro<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> +merely smiled at them both, smiled until his +round, plump face seemed like a caricature of +himself sketched in upturned half-moons of +mirth.</p> + +<p>“That is quite all right,” he assured her. +“You should be proud that so great a man is +attracted by your genius. So soon as you have +signed your first contract, my dear, and made +your début, then you may refuse to see him, if +you like, if not before. What is the look in his +eyes to you? Thousands will gaze at you so. +You must learn to accept homage gracefully. +Ward is a stepping-stone to success. To-morrow +I shall see Casanova for you as he ordered.”</p> + +<p>Carlota closed her eyes as the car drew up +under the heavy porte-cochère at the Saint +Germain apartments. Its rim of electric lights +was the sole illumination on the dark side +street at that hour.</p> + +<p>“No, I shall not come up with you,” protested +Jacobelli. “Do not tempt me, signora. I +shall overeat if you set before me one of those +delightful suppers of yours, and, besides, the +child must rest. We may get a hearing to-morrow +and she needs all her strength. Sleep well, +Carlota. Remember, smother the emotion that +cripples your work.”</p> + +<p>She did not speak until they reached their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> +apartment, and Maria laid her hands on her +shoulders to look closely into her eyes under +the shaded lights.</p> + +<p>“Ah, my dear one, they have hurt you to-night,” +she sighed. “You are not ready yet, +not old enough to manage these men. Some +day it will be as nothing to you, their whims +and notions, their mad passions and threats. A +man in love is the most helpless, pitiful thing +in all the world, never, never dangerous. You +have him at your mercy. What did he say to +you?”</p> + +<p>Carlota slipped out of her velvet cloak +tiredly.</p> + +<p>“I hardly know. It was so sudden and horrible, +the touch of his hands on my flesh, and +his face close to mine. He was a dog to take +advantage of my being there as his guest—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, hush! What did he say to you?” urged +Maria shrewdly.</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all. He asked me to sing, and +when I had finished he seized me in his arms +and tried to kiss me.”</p> + +<p>“I should not have left you alone. Opportunity +makes the thief. It is Jacobelli’s fault. +He must have known that Ward desired a +chance of speaking to you. But it is all nothing, +cara mia, nothing at all. It was certain he +would fall in love with you. No man could help<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> +it, but he must be taught some gems are priceless. +He did not ask you any questions, then, +about yourself, about the Paoli collection or +the jewels you wore?”</p> + +<p>Carlota looked at her wonderingly.</p> + +<p>“Of course not. Why should he?”</p> + +<p>“I do not want any one to know they are +here in America, out of the Tittani vaults. Nobody +is aware of it as yet excepting yourself +and the Marchese. He helped me with the customs +when we came in, he and the delightful +Palmieri. But even to Palmieri they were +merely jewels. He did not know their histories.”</p> + +<p>Carlota watched her anxiously, a quick reaction +of tenderness and solicitude for Maria +sweeping over her, and making her forgetful of +her own trouble.</p> + +<p>“You’re worried, dear. Why?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Why?” Maria laughed. “Because I am +doubtless a superstitious old fool. Paoli always +said there was a curse about the rubies and +pearls, rubies for the blood of the people, +pearls for the tears they shed. I wish we had +not brought them.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> following morning at nine-thirty, Signor +Jacobelli stood bowing on the threshold of +Casanova’s small sanctum in the Opera building. +Armed with Ogden Ward’s influence and +his own reputation, his welcome was assured. +Casanova, lean and dark, beamed on his visitor +like some comradely Mephisto luxuriating +in dolce far niente.</p> + +<p>“Come in, my friend,” he called. “You release +me from the duty of perusing the new +opera of the great, unknown composer who +insists that I shall discover him. Do you bring +me a new sensation?”</p> + +<p>But Jacobelli was mysterious and secretive. +For over an hour he sat in the famous, three-cornered +office, dilating upon the beauty and +genius of Paoli’s granddaughter until he knew +he held the interest of the impresario. Suddenly +Alphonse, the slender, solicitous secretary, +peered around the door.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Carrington Nevins,” he whispered +tentatively. “She is alone.”</p> + +<p>“You will wait,” Casanova urged, as he +nodded assent. “She is very wealthy, one of +our best subscribers. She wishes to secure some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> +good singers for her Italian fête. One cannot +refuse, and then she has a daughter whom she +thinks is a Galli-Curci handicapped by position +and money.”</p> + +<p>“I fly,” answered Jacobelli shortly, but as +he turned about, he encountered Mrs. Nevins. +Somehow, with her elaborately arranged gray +hair, fine aquiline profile, and costume of gray +velvet trimmed in silver fox, she brought a +memory of Marie Antoinette, or was it merely +the reminder of some famous actress in the +part? The old maestro paused before her, a +half-comic air of having been captured on the +point of flight.</p> + +<p>“I have heard often of you,” she said graciously. +“My daughter Nathalie sings. She is +a wonderful child, and even you, signor, must +recognize genius, though you meet it handicapped.”</p> + +<p>Casanova’s half-closed eyes twinkled at the +inference, but Jacobelli was in a mellow mood.</p> + +<p>“I shall be charmed to hear her some time, +madame. Let her not choke her voice upon her +golden spoon.”</p> + +<p>“You must hear her soon,” insisted Mrs. +Nevins. “I am getting up a programme for my +Italian fête, the milk fund for the children, +you know, a wonderful cause. Don’t you think +Signor Jacobelli might be a help to us, Signor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> +Casanova? I do want to have everything in +harmony, authentic and still startling. I want +a little operetta for Nathalie’s sake, and have +been talking over the libretto with a young +composer I just met, Griffeth Ames; perhaps +you may know him.”</p> + +<p>But Jacobelli was in a hurry to leave, and +protesting his utter ignorance of Mr. Ames’s +existence, he departed, not realizing how the +grim sisters of fate had tangled his thread of +life that moment with Griffeth Ames’s destiny.</p> + +<p>At the same moment Ames sat perched on +the seat in the slanting dormer window, staring +down moodily at the street below. It was +nearly eleven. Sometimes she came in the +morning, and they would have lunch together +after her lesson. He had not realized how deep +an interest she had become in his life until two +days had elapsed without her. Ptolemy kept +vigil with him through the long evenings, while +he smoked and told himself all sophists and +philosophers were bachelors and liars. Love +was a terrible, disconcerting truth. And he +saw Carlota’s face in the vanishing rings of his +smoke.</p> + +<p>At the corner stood a pushcart piled high +with California grapes, turned into a shrine of +Bacchus. Upreared on a wooden framework +festoons of clusters dangled temptingly, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> +vine leaves were twined about the base of the +cart. The boy who tended it bartered with an +old sibyl-faced Sicilian grandmother, naming +her a price, and whistling until she came +around to it. And suddenly Ames caught sight +of Carlota as she walked across the Square +from the ’bus terminus, her slim, youthful figure +conspicuous among the vari-clad denizens +of the park. She paused at the stand and +bought plentifully, not only of the grapes, but +of late rich-toned pears and golden-russet apples. +He leaned far out the window, watching +her longingly, Ptolemy rubbing against his +arm as though he, too, sensed the return of +Columbine.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the last flight of stairs Carlota +hesitated, listening. From the studio came a +new melody, a haunting, yearning strain that +she remembered. Ames had played it at the +Phelpses that first night when their eyes had +met. He had named it the “Quest of Love,” +“Cerca di Amore.” As it ended, she opened the +door softly, without knocking.</p> + +<p>“I have come to prepare lunch, signor,” she +said demurely, but with a flash of mischief in +her eyes. “If you are still angry, then Ptolemy +and I will eat it together.”</p> + +<p>“Is it a lasting peace or merely an armistice?” +he demanded, sweeping the papers from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> +the table. “You are afraid to look at me for +fear you will surrender.”</p> + +<p>“It is an armistice,” she said sedately. “It +is beneath your dignity as a composer to take +pupils who have not real genius. I still hold to +that. And I shall need celery and romaine and +tomatoes and grapefruit and almonds for my +salad, so you may go out and find them.”</p> + +<p>She tied a strip of drapery around her for +an apron, and started preparations for lunch. +Ames leaned from a back window and hailed a +small and willing neighbor to go to the market, +after the needs of the queen, as he said.</p> + +<p>They did not speak to each other for some +time. Ames watched her as the sunlight poured +down on her bowed head. He held a melon in +one hand, uplifted absently, a length of scarlet +and black art burlap around his waist.</p> + +<p>“You look exactly like one of the melon-sellers +on the quay at Naples,” she told him, +with a little smile. “When the boat stops +there, they crowd around begging you to buy +from them. Lift up your arm and call out.”</p> + +<p>“I will do no such thing,” responded Ames +buoyantly. “I decline to pose for your majesty. +Will you deign to name your castle habitat, +that I may call on your most royal parents +and interest them in my humble self?”</p> + +<p>She was serious in an instant.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>“I have no people, signor. If you could go +with me to the Villa Tittani, you would find a +very little village high up on the rocks above +the Campagna. You know where I mean? +See?”</p> + +<p>She dipped her finger-tips in the dregs of +chianti remaining in the bowl beside her where +she had used it in the salad dressing, and +traced a map for him on the bare table-top.</p> + +<p>“Here is the winding road from the shore, +and here at the very top there is a villa with +rose-tinted stone walls all about it, very high +walls overgrown with flowers and vines. That +is where the nobility live.” Her eyes were +sparkling with mischief. “Often when I was +little I have seen the Contessa walking on the +terraces. She was so stately and handsome, +and her daughter Bianca was like a real princess +should be, a princess of dreams and fairy-tales, +tall and slender and with eyes like stars. +Then, if you walk on, down through the ilex +avenue, you will come to a very quiet spot +where the old tombs face the sea, and there are +my people, all of them.”</p> + +<p>“I’m a brute!” exclaimed Ames, holding +her hands in his with quick, understanding +tenderness. “The way I have let you come and +go without showing any real interest after all +you have done for me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>“What have I done? Come down here and +let you teach me and in return told you some +fairy-tales.”</p> + +<p>He stared down at her, puzzled as always. +He was twenty-four, and the coasts of chance +and illusion were far more tangible to him than +any of Life’s ports of call. He wondered if he +could make her understand all that she had +become to him. He wheeled about and found +his pipe with sudden disgust at his own impotence.</p> + +<p>“Carlota, do you know, I’ve just discovered +something about myself. I’m a beastly poor +amateur at making love. I want to tell you just +how I feel about you slipping in here like a sunbeam, +or—or Ptolemy. You know, I found +him on the fire escape one morning, and he’s +stayed here ever since. There was a sparrow, +too, last winter. I left my window open there, +and it flew in out of the storm and perched on +the curtain rod. Fought me every time I tried +to feed it. You seemed to belong to their crowd, +the sunbeam and the sparrow and Ptolemy. +You just came and stayed, and I was a fool; I +took you for granted.”</p> + +<p>“You asked me to come, after we first met,” +Carlota corrected him. “I would not come +without the invitation first.”</p> + +<p>He bowed low before her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>“And I am honored by the royal presence. +I have learned these last two days the strangest +thing. When you are here and we are +friends, I can work at my best, and when you +are angry with me, it goes just like that, all +my inspiration. So you see you have me at +your mercy.” He turned and rummaged +among the mass of papers and score-sheets on +the piano-top. “I’m going to finish my operetta +in a week if you’ll stand by me and not +get temperamental, dear. The big chance is +coming now. Mrs. Nevins says she can get me +an immediate hearing from Casanova if she +presents it first at her fête. Isn’t that great?”</p> + +<p>Carlota’s lips pressed together firmly at the +name. She did not answer.</p> + +<p>“You must be glad with me because you +gave me the idea for it. I had been tormented +with a mass of harmonies and tunes that +would not shape into anything. Remember +how I played that first night you met me? +Listen to this and see if you remember it.”</p> + +<p>He leaned over the piano towards her, reading +aloud the synopsis of the libretto.</p> + +<p>“Fiametta is the lonely princess of the +Castle Tittani. She loves Peppino, a fisher-boy. +There is a fête in the village. She disguises +herself to go down and mingle with the +people, scaling the walls of Tittani with love’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> +magic. She dances with Peppino, who does not +know that she is the princess. He is disguised +as Harlequin. His sweetheart stabs her through +jealousy when Peppino avows his love for her. +She dies in his arms as the people recognize +her as their princess. It is the tragedy of youth’s +eternal quest for love beyond all barriers.”</p> + +<p>Her head was bent over the salad bowl as +she listened.</p> + +<p>“I call it ‘Fiametta.’ Do you like it?” he +asked eagerly. “You don’t mind my using the +little story you told me, do you, Carlota? I +may make it immortal.”</p> + +<p>“Why must she die, your princess?” she +said wistfully. “I love it all but that. How +could you write it when you had not seen our +beautiful Tittani or known my people.”</p> + +<p>“I had seen and known you. That’s the +answer. Listen to this.” He flung himself down +at the piano, head back, striking into the +melody that had been his call to her. “This +is your motif.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly there came an imperative tap at +the door.</p> + +<p>“Open. My arms are full.”</p> + +<p>“That’s only Dmitri. You met him at the +Phelpses that night.” Ames threw wide the +door. “Enter and join the happy throng. +Comes a Greek bearing gifts.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>At sight of Carlota, Dmitri dropped his +bundles and made obeisance with sedate +ceremony.</p> + +<p>“I had not dreamt that any but myself +would ever climb those stairs to the house of +Ptolemy.”</p> + +<p>“I’m the luckiest man in the world. Listen, +Dmitri; quit bowing and understand. This +is—” Ames hesitated and laughed. “I don’t +even know your last name, Carlota. You tell +him. You met each other at Phelps’s.”</p> + +<p>Carlota looked at the newcomer in her +grave, measuring way. She had not remembered +him at all. He was older than Ames, and +without any claims whatever to good looks. +Swarthy, thin, slight, stoop-shouldered, careless +in dress, there was still something indefinably +distinguished and reassuring about +him. He might have sat for a bust of the youthful +Socrates with his blunt, uneven profile. A +perpetual smile perched on his wide mouth; +not a propitiatory smile, but rather a tolerant +one. Here was a spirit that might have +waited æons on the edge of chaos, believing +absolutely in the ultimate birth of cosmic +harmony, even on earth.</p> + +<p>“Please! I beg you not to.” He interrupted +her. “I do not wish to know your name. Identity +is the cloak of selfishness. They number<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> +convicts and name hapless infants. Human +consciousness is a universal lottery where the +lucky numbers win by drawing personality in +lots of genius. Griffeth is a genius. I am one. +You, too, with that face, do not have to be a +genius. You are Woman, incarnate Love and +Inspiration to us poor devils.”</p> + +<p>“Give him work to keep him quiet,” advised +Ames.</p> + +<p>But Dmitri picked up his bundles and began +opening them with the air of a high priest at +his ritual.</p> + +<p>“I shall prepare a feast for you to-day, a +treat. The brigand stew of Bulgaria. I have +eaten it on mountain heights where even the +goats die of starvation.”</p> + +<p>“I think I will go,” Carlota said in her +quick, aloof way, and Dmitri turned to her +eagerly, his face full of a strange, beseeching +charm.</p> + +<p>“See, I have disappointed you!” he declared; +“when for weeks I have hoped to +catch you here on one of your flights of passage. +First when I saw you at Mr. Phelps’s, you +overlooked me absolutely for him.” He nodded +at Ames. “He is merely spectacular. He had +no more vision, no wider horizons than a mole. +When he told me yesterday that you would +never come here again, I understood perfectly.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> +I told him you would surely return, but I +knew also why you were angry with him. He +stands outside our range of perspective, so +you must forgive him. He blunders like a +baby lamb; you know the kind with large +knees and prodigious ears, utterly hopeless.”</p> + +<p>“Grand old Diogenes; all he needs is a tub +and lantern to go into business.” Ames patted +him affectionately. “Put your old lamb on to +stew and stop spouting if we are to eat it to-day. +What do you do first, braise it?”</p> + +<p>“Let it alone. He is become the plaything +of the privileged classes.” Dmitri seized his +bundles and made for the kitchenette, where +he declaimed just the same. “How many +times in three days have you motored down +to Long Island? Confess.”</p> + +<p>Ames avoided Carlota’s questioning, accusing +eyes.</p> + +<p>“Twice, to give lessons.”</p> + +<p>“Twice for lessons, and then you stay all +the afternoon and have dinner also there. The +truth ye cannot bear.”</p> + +<p>“When I believed that you were working +hard on your opera and were sorry I did not +come back to you,” Carlota said softly.</p> + +<p>“Son of discordance!” Ames flung a cushion +headlong over the partition. “You only want to +set Carlota against me and seize her yourself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>“See?” Dmitri’s head showed around the +curtain delightedly. “He has already the little +social tricks. To be petty. Still, I like him, so +I will save him. You shall not become the +Harlequin boy of the nouveaux riches. They +will but monopolize your time until a new +warrior of ennui shall appear and grasp the +golden bough from your hand. They will permit +you to loll in their beautiful playgrounds +until you imagine yourself indispensable. You +will think you are succeeding, getting in on +the inside, as they say. You will gain patronage. +You are young and might be popular, but +time is your treasure, and they waste it as +nothing.”</p> + +<p>Out of doors spring dallied in the old square, +and Jacobelli, stepping from the interior of a +green motor ’bus just beyond the Arch, lingered +to regard almost paternally the toddling, +black-eyed babies and fluttering, dancing +youngsters that played around the dry +fountain. A flock of pigeons swerved down +from the Judson Memorial Tower and he +smiled at them benignly, seeing those that fed +at noon below the Campanile.</p> + +<p>He had tried to induce Casanova to join him +at luncheon down at the Brevoort, but the +director had another engagement and Jacobelli +had been forced to come alone, something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> +he innately disliked. There was the genial, +gregarious instinct of the old Roman feaster +in the maestro. He loved to treat himself to a +carefully chosen meal in a favorite corner, with +a friend opposite, and a chef on duty who +knew his name.</p> + +<p>The beauty of the Square lured him. In late +October it seemed to rest like some gypsy +dancer, garbed in rich attire of red and gold, +but silent and tense with expectation of the +next twirl. He strolled towards the south side +leisurely, intending to circle the Square on his +way back to the hotel, trying to reason with +himself on his duty to Carlota. His experience +with women had taught him the usual causes +of their temperamental moods. Something had +undoubtedly aroused Carlota’s nature into +sudden and unexpected sensitiveness. It could +not be merely her dislike and resentment towards +Ward. If this had been so, then why +had she not reacted under the stimulus during +the past two years. No, he mused, with toleration, +somehow, the contagion of Love had +touched her in spite of their care, and lo, the +walls of Tittani tumbled at the magic bugle of +some Childe Roland. Even so, it was nothing +serious, he told himself. Maria’s health was +better now. She could watch her closer. At +eighteen a girl’s imagination will clothe some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> +distant object with all the splendor of heroism. +Doubtless she was under the spell of her own +natural yearning for love.</p> + +<p>And suddenly, even while he rambled and +reasoned, the demigod of Misrule wakened +drowsily and took note of the excellent juxtaposition +of certain humans. Jacobelli stopped +dead short, head uplifted like a horse scenting +fire as a voice floated out on the midday air +singing Mimi’s duet with a lilting, impetuous +tenor for company. He could have sworn it +was Carlota. Never could there be two such +voices in New York. He tried to locate the +sound, but it seemed to float from him elusively. +He cut hastily across the southwest +end of the park, seeking it, and gazed up at +the row of brownstone old studio buildings +across Fourth Street.</p> + +<p>At the same moment a young Bulgarian, +smoking a thin long cigarette in the exact center +of his lips, rose from a seat and followed +him. When Jacobelli crossed the street, intent +and purpose in every move of his rotund figure, +the boy waited, his seal-brown eyes mere slits, +half-lifted lids showing gleams of high lights +as he stared fixedly after him. Outside the +narrow flagged plots, the old teacher hesitated, +then entered the dusty hallway of the +house next to Ames’s abiding-place. The Bulgarian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> +smiled and followed after him, lingering +at the corner.</p> + +<p>Up in the studio luncheon was over. So successful +and opulent it had been, this brigand +feast, that Dmitri announced they were all +suffering from the ennui of satiety, that bête +noire of the rich. Carlota was happy once +more. She had read over the libretto of the +operetta while the two argued over points in +the score, had sat at the piano, trying bits here +and there of Fiametta’s rôle until, somewhere +down on Bleecker Street, a church chime +reached her ears, and she rose hurriedly. Maria +would be home at two.</p> + +<p>“I must leave you,” she said regretfully. +“And all the dishes to wash!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do them gladly.” Dmitri donned an +apron promptly. “Griff, you take your inspiration +to the ’bus while I do your work for +you.”</p> + +<p>“How do you know that I take the ’bus to +my home?”</p> + +<p>She looked back at him teasingly. He waved +both hands comprehensively, dismissing the +query as superfluous.</p> + +<p>“Everybody who comes down here takes +the ’bus. It is part of the thrill, the experience +of the unusual. They are the land ferries that +cross the gulf between fact and fancy.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>He began the duet plaintively as he fished +for a strip of drapery and tossed it about his +shoulders for a cloak. Carlota took up the reply +of Mimi while she pulled a black-velvet +student cap over her close, glossy ripples of +hair. Out on the landing Ames waited for her +eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Listen. You will come again soon, won’t +you, dear? Dmitri’s a curious sort, but he’s all +gold, no alloy. He thinks your voice is great.”</p> + +<p>“I like him very much,” she said naïvely. +“Much better than Mrs. Nevins and her +daughter. How many times must you go to +see them this week?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t! It isn’t anything at all, her +interest in my work. She’s giving some sort of +a fête for the Italian Relief Fund, a sort of +glorified musicale as I understand it, and she +wants me to give my operetta so her daughter +can sing the mezzo part, Pippa. I intend that +you shall sing Fiametta, the princess.”</p> + +<p>“Impossible!” exclaimed Carlota in hushed +alarm. “I never, never could do that, Mr. +Ames.”</p> + +<p>“You call me Griffeth,” he swung back happily. +“You are going to sing it just the same, +and it may make your fortune. I know it will +mine. Dmitri’s all wrong, you know. He’s got +some sort of a brain kink over this hatred of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> +the rich. I don’t dare tell him even who my +father is for fear he may cut my acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“Is your father, then, rich?” Her gaze never +left his face.</p> + +<p>“Well, they call him so where we live out +in Colorado. You’re in the bondholder class +there after you pass fifty thousand, but I +don’t think Dad’s in danger of being counted +an enemy of the people yet; just comfortably +dusted.”</p> + +<p>He laughed down at her as they crossed the +Square towards the ’bus terminus. And at +exactly the same instant Signor Jacobelli was +bursting without warning or ceremony into a +studio on the second floor where a model +posed. He emerged, nonplussed and furious. +On the third floor the door was locked. He +shook the handle imperatively, and a disturbed +but pleasantly modulated voice answered:</p> + +<p>“Sorry, old man. Come Monday, will you?”</p> + +<p>“It is impossible,” exclaimed the maestro +to himself, when he reached the street, and +stood wiping his forehead with a sense of baffled +uncertainty. “Yet there are not two voices +like hers in the world. I shall not wait. Love +is a madness.”</p> + +<p>He retraced his steps towards the Brevoort, +determined now to tell Maria his suspicions.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> +Up at the dormer window of the studio, +Dmitri leaned out, placing bread crumbs on +the fire escape for the sparrows.</p> + +<p>“Go to, greedy one,” he said gravely, to one +brown vagrant struggling after the largest +piece. “You elbow for room in the bread-line. +Beware the Infinite overlooks your falling.”</p> + +<p>He glanced at the picture ensemble of the +Square, one eye half closed to catch the light-and-shade +effect and found a hindrance suddenly +to his enjoyment of life. Sauntering +across the street and into the park entrance +was the Bulgarian. He paused to drink at the +little iron fountain, and Dmitri leaned forward, +giving a low, peculiar whistle. The boy +lifted his head with a jerk and stared about +him. He forgot his thirst. The crafty, self-contained +air fell from him. Dmitri laughed down +at him and waved his hand, beckoning him to +come up. The other shook his head and waited.</p> + +<p>“Another sparrow,” Dmitri said to himself +as he closed the studio and went to join him. +“He is too thin, much too thin.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Ames returned to the studio twenty +minutes later, it was still empty. In his own +room over on East Twenty-Eighth Street, +Dmitri sat on a couch, smoking and listening +to the boy Steccho talk of Sofia, of his mountain +home, of Maryna his sister, and the little +smiling mother who cooked so excellently.</p> + +<p>“The last time we met, we dipped in the +same drinking-bowl, remember?” Dmitri +smiled across at him. “You are too young to +come here in these times. Who has sent you? +Do not tell me if you dare not. I am not afraid. +I will still open wide the door every time you +care to visit me, my friend. Are the little +mother and sister quite safe, you are sure?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, absolutely.” Steccho’s dark face glowed +with enthusiasm. “Before I come here I see +to that, and they will have more still, much +more.”</p> + +<p>“So? Then you are doing well. That is good. +The times are changing about, eh? Are there +any of the others here? I have met no one +since I came. I was wounded and in the hospital +for months, so I have lost track of the +old friends.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>“You did not return, then, afterwards?” +Steccho’s glance was uneasy.</p> + +<p>“No,” replied Dmitri, lying on his back, and +blowing long, uneven ovals into the air. “I do +not like it all, frankly, my boy. They compromise +and barter first with this faction, +then with the other. Each is afraid to trust the +other. It has become a great struggle for self-preservation +now that the masters twist the +torture screws of starvation. Life, after all, +once you desert nature, becomes merely a +struggle for the dear old bread and butter in +one form or another. Commerce is built upon +the necessities of human existence under modern +conditions. Personally, I am very radical +on one point. I would kill without mercy the +man who gambles for his own profit on the +necessities of his brother man, his food, his +fuel, his clothing. And I do not believe in killing, +as you know. I regard war as a subterfuge, an +exploitation of power. I object to persons infusing +into my mind hatred of my brother man +merely because he happens to live on a different +spot of earth than I do, and belongs to a different +branch of the same human race.”</p> + +<p>“There are robbers and murderers in the +brotherhood as well as in the privileged +classes.”</p> + +<p>“So, my Steccho has learned to perch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> +safely and sensibly upon the fence between +the warring factions, yes? The rain falls on the +just and the unjust, therefore we must be +merciful likewise.” He sat up and reached for +his violin, playing stray chords, bits of folk-songs +and haunting Czech melodies in minors.</p> + +<p>Steccho listened moodily, his eyes almost +closed as he clasped arms about his knees, and +bent his head on them. Dmitri played in silence +for nearly half an hour. When he stopped, +the boy looked up at him wistfully.</p> + +<p>“When the cause is right, the way must be +right too.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by the cause?” Dmitri +asked genially. “We live in a day when causes +are hung for sale in any market-place. You +may buy them like indulgences from pilgrim +friars. I would pick my cause with caution.”</p> + +<p>“I mean this. No matter what we do, if it is +for some great, beautiful purpose, then it does +not matter, eh?”</p> + +<p>“You will stub your toe on that rock, the +end that justifies the means; that is all it +comes to when you are through with reasoning +and sophistry. And I do not like any reasoning +which may be diverted by the idiot Chance, to +his own blind folly. Can you tell me frankly +why you are here? I will keep silent and help +you if I may.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>Steccho threw away his last cigarette and +rose, stretching himself like an animal impatient +for a run.</p> + +<p>“I am here so that my mother and Maryna +may dwell in the yellow castle forever,” he +answered with a slow smile. “You cannot help, +but I should like to come here and rest now +and then.”</p> + +<p>“You will come again soon, my friend,” +Dmitri laid both hands on his shoulders +warmly. “Come often, when you like. If I am +out, look for me over in the squares, or open +the door and be happy as you can until I return. +Light the fire yourself. It awaits you. If +you will come back to-night, I can promise +you such a meal of broiled lamb and rice as +you have not tasted since the home days.”</p> + +<p>“Not to-night.” Steccho shook his head. “I +might take you from your friends. I could hear +you singing while I stood in the park there +to-day. The girl had a fine voice.”</p> + +<p>“She has genius and is poor. My friend is +giving her lessons so she may sing in his opera +some day. He is very much interested in her. +It is a romance.” Dmitri smiled whimsically. +“He does not even know her name, but she is +very beautiful. Ah, my Steccho, if you and I, +who are older than the ages in our outlook on +life, could only receive this baptism of joy,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> +this love. You would forget your torches and +rivers of blood if the one woman would give +you her lips, yes?”</p> + +<p>The boy turned his back on him at the door, +the face of Carlota before his eyes as it had +disturbed and bewildered his purpose ever +since he had first looked upon its beauty and +innocence. His fingers shook as he fumbled +blindly for the doorknob.</p> + +<p>“I will come again, Dmitri. Good-night.”</p> + +<p>He went directly uptown in the subway. +There is a small carriage entrance to the Hotel +Dupont. By it, you may enter most privately +and unostentatiously a low-ceiled, satin-walled +corridor which leads past a flower-stand and +telephone booth to a single elevator, half concealed +in a recess.</p> + +<p>Here the boy waited while his name was +sent up to Count Lazio Jurka. There was a +delay, and presently down in the private elevator +came the valet and personal courier of +the Count, a soldierly individual, gray-haired +and austere.</p> + +<p>“You always blunder,” he said as he led the +way to the servants’ elevator. “You come here +as a tailor, not a guest. He does not expect +you to-night. Have you news?”</p> + +<p>Steccho shrugged his shoulders sullenly. +After the meeting with Dmitri his mind was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> +unsettled. As they passed by the palm-guarded +tea-room, the great paneled dining-room on +the corner, the rotunda with its rose-hued +walls and marble columns, the leisurely parade +of the late afternoon frequenters, his memory +traveled rapidly back to his old life that Dmitri +had been a part of.</p> + +<p>It was a far cry to Rigl, his home village, +eighteen miles out of Sofia if you take the narrow +mountain trail on horseback. There had +been the childhood there, and later, when he +had worked in Sofia at the little hand-press +bindery, to enable himself to study evenings. +He passed one hand over his eyes restlessly as +the valet opened the door of a corner suite on +the eighth floor and snapped the catch after +them. The small inner salon was empty. Excepting +for scattered daily papers it bore no +trace of use. The door of the dressing-room +was ajar, and Steccho bowed low on its threshold, +waiting the word to enter.</p> + +<p>Before a large oval mirror Count Jurka tied +his cravat with a deliberate and distinct enjoyment +of the artistry required by the operation. +Clad in underclothes and shirt, he resembled +some French courtier, one who might +have just flung off his cloak and hat in a gray +dawn rendezvous, and, balancing his rapier, +awaited his opponent.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>He was youthful, blond, serene-eyed, the +Count Jurka. Throughout the war of nations +those same blue eyes had witnessed unspeakable +atrocities with the utmost impersonal +calm. The white, pink-nailed hands that dallied +over cravats had dipped in the blood of +innocents quite as artistically and deliberately +as they handled the silk ends now. He was an +individual the guillotine would have licked its +long steel tongue over after devouring, but +there were no guillotines in Sofia, and firing-squads +were out of date likewise. The hand of +fate deputed its blows to those who worked +secretly and left no trace behind save the victim.</p> + +<p>“Come in, Steccho,” he called pleasantly. +“How goes this merry world with you? The +cigarettes, Georges.”</p> + +<p>Steccho accepted two from the long, narrow +brown leather box the valet extended to him, +and held them unlighted in his fingers. There +had been a man in Sofia who had been extremely +ill, even to the verge of death, after +smoking cigarettes from that brown leather +box.</p> + +<p>The cravat tied, Jurka seated himself in an +amber satin armchair, a black-velvet dressing-robe +about his shoulders. He smiled musingly +across at the boy, noting his drawn, harassed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> +face. The hand that held the cigarettes shook +slightly. The muscles around his lips twitched +under that amused scrutiny.</p> + +<p>“Have you found them?”</p> + +<p>The question came hard and short finally. +Steccho shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Excellenza,” he said eagerly, “the opportunity +has not come. I have followed them +both unceasingly, day and night, and have +seen nothing.”</p> + +<p>“You have followed the girl. Day and night +you have followed her, no one else. You have +not yet ascertained where the jewels are kept, +nor whether she has access to them. Are they +in New York or in Italy? Are they in the possession +of Maria Roma in their apartment, or +in a safety-deposit vault? Why do you shadow +the girl Carlota unless you are perhaps in love +with her?”</p> + +<p>Steccho’s eyes were brilliant with resentment +that he dared not express in words.</p> + +<p>“One must go slowly here, excellenza,” he +said. “It is not Sofia. You yourself would not +have the power to shield me or hold the jewels +if I were caught. One must look the ground +over thoroughly. Possibly, as you say, they +are not even here in America, but have been +left in Italy.”</p> + +<p>Jurka smiled slowly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>“I will satisfy you on that point, and relieve +your doubt, my Steccho. They are here. Duty +was declared on the full collection, Palmieri +tells me. It passed as the private jewels of a +non-resident alien. So far, I do not believe Ogden +Ward has even seen them, but I know the +girl has offered them to him in return for the +sums he has advanced for her musical education. +She has no conception of their value.”</p> + +<p>“You know she has offered them to him, +excellenza!” Steccho’s head was thrust forward +eagerly, the emphasis in his tone conveying +his incredulity.</p> + +<p>“Through Ward’s Japanese butler, Ishigaki. +He overheard her the night Ward gave the girl +a dinner.”</p> + +<p>“Excellenza, your eyes are everywhere,” +murmured the boy.</p> + +<p>“Not my eyes, Steccho,” smiled Jurka. +“My gold. Georges here is an able and cautious +distributor, eh? Does the girl Carlota +never wear her jewels?”</p> + +<p>He stretched out his feet carelessly for +Georges to fasten his boots. The boy watched +him with unblinking eyes, thinking of how once +he had seen their high, hard heels grind into +the dead face of a man lying in the snow. He +was the friend of Dmitri and his group then. +The war had seemed far from their little mountain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> +village until there came a day when Jurka’s +troops came through. They had quartered +at the inn and scattered among the different +homes. Levano, old Levano, who preached +liberty and peace from his blacksmith forge, +had staggered out into the road after his two +daughters had been violated, and had thrust +his red-hot branding-irons into the face of the +soldiery. Jurka had ground his heel on his +mouth that had stiffened under choked curses.</p> + +<p>Later, in an upper room at the inn—He +stared fixedly at the highly polished boots of +Jurka, and sought to fasten his memory solely +on Maryna and the little mother. The Count +had said Maryna was a pretty little thing the +day he had saved Steccho from the troops. She +had run through the crowd in the village and +had knelt to wipe her brother’s bruised face. +That was the first time he had seen her, and +she was barely fifteen. It had been later on, in +the upper room at the inn, that Steccho had +sworn to enter the service of the Queen providing +safety might be assured the two left at Rigl. +Whenever, as now, he was tempted to spring +at the white, self-assured throat, he forced himself +to think of them. He had come to-night primarily +to ask if they were still safe, if his excellenza +had any news from Rigl, and to shake off +the disquieting effect of Dmitri’s philosophy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>“I have never seen her wear jewels, excellenza,” +he answered slowly. “She is very +young, about sixteen. They would not permit +it, probably.”</p> + +<p>“She is nineteen and looks older,” returned +the Count curtly.</p> + +<p>“Pardon—you have then seen her?”</p> + +<p>Jurka made no reply, but met the boy’s +eager gaze with calculating suspicion.</p> + +<p>“You are feeling your way through the +dark, Steccho. Beware of pricking swords. You +have been allotted a certain task, a very easy +task, merely to find out where these jewels are +if they are concealed in the apartment of Carlota +Trelango, and to get them at all risks. You +have two women as opponents, and you crawl +and creep and shadow them for weeks. You +were told to enter their abode and search it. +You were told to find out their associates, +their circumstances. What have you accomplished +save the incessant following of the girl +herself. Are you then infatuated, my Steccho? +It is the eternal failing of youth.”</p> + +<p>Steccho’s face colored dully. Maryna was +fifteen, the girl Carlota only four years older. +Most of the young girls of Rigl had been given +to the Jurka’s soldiery that week, excepting the +three loveliest,—little Roziska, the pale +Wanda destined for the convent, and radiant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> +Katinka with eyes like Carlota’s, velvety, +luminous. He had always watched her in +church when she knelt in the long shaft of purple +light above the aureole of Saint Genevieve. +If there had been no war, he would have married +Katinka some day, but the three had been +dragged to the rooms above the inn, reserved +for the high honor of his excellenza’s favor. +Were the jewels but part of his plan? If he had +seen Carlota’s beauty, would she not become +like the three girls he had seen thrown out to +the soldiers after his excellenza had wearied of +them? He lifted keen eyes to the suave, smiling +face.</p> + +<p>“They go nowhere, save to the places I have +already told you.”</p> + +<p>Georges grimaced at his servility and protesting +palms.</p> + +<p>“Recount!” ordered Jurka. “The Marchese, +Ward, Jacobelli. Are there more?”</p> + +<p>“No more.” The boy’s gaze never wavered. +Dmitri had said it was a romance, the affair in +the Square, and they were his friends. It gave +him a curious, inmost thrill of happiness to feel +that he was thwarting the man who had killed +the other girl, Katinka.</p> + +<p>The bell of the suite rang lightly. Georges +sprang to his feet, laying an evening suit over +the boy’s arm, and pushing him before him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> +into the reception-hall. As he opened the door, +he gave voluble directions to the tailor’s assistant +for the evening garb of the Count. The +hotel page presented several letters on a silver +tray and passed on down the corridor.</p> + +<p>“It is not safe for you to come here.” Jurka +opened the letters with a single thrust of a +slender blade. His clean-cut dexterity fascinated +Steccho. “Where the devil do you live, +anyway?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-Eighth Street, East,” he lied simply. +“I change often. A friend told me of this +place.”</p> + +<p>“Make no friends, I have told you.”</p> + +<p>“A former friend whom I had known in +Sofia. I but met him on the street one day, a +very old man, Boris—”</p> + +<p>Georges held up his hand with a frown. The +Count perused the first letter he opened twice, +and smiled. It was from Mrs. Carrington Nevins, +urgently requesting his presence and assistance +in the success of her entertainment at +Belvoir, Long Island.</p> + +<p>“The social ruse always wins out, Georges. +We are the emissaries of the queen’s mercy; +we wish to study the methods for rehabilitating +the wounded, for salvaging the war wreckage +of humanity. The exiled queen’s heart is +torn with remorse for her poor lost ones. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> +sounds well and opens many doors, among +them, Belvoir.” He laughed and tossed the +letter to Georges. “Accept. It is for a week +from Saturday.”</p> + +<p>Steccho waited his pleasure by the door. +Timidly, as Jurka went through his mail, he +ventured to attract his attention once more.</p> + +<p>“Excellenza, you have heard some news recently, +perhaps from Sofia, from Rigl?”</p> + +<p>Georges motioned him to leave, but he lingered +obstinately.</p> + +<p>“You have news of my mother and sister, +yes, of Maryna, excellenza? You remember +Maryna, the little girl who—”</p> + +<p>The Count nodded his blond head towards +the door.</p> + +<p>“Out!” he said briefly. “Bring me the jewels +by Saturday.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Signor Jacobelli</span> was in a baffled mood. +Every time Carlota came for her lesson, he +would regard her thoughtfully, dubiously, but +found no solution to his problem in her happy, +serene face and dark eyes that held a gleam of +mirth nowadays.</p> + +<p>Once she had just missed meeting Ward himself +there. It had been his first visit since the +dinner, and after his departure a florist’s messenger +brought her a purple box filled with +single-petaled Parma violets. Under them lay +a velvet case containing a pendant, two perfect, +pear-shaped pearls. She retained the messenger, +writing on the back of Ward’s own +card in haste:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Signor</span>: I thank you. The only jewels I ever +wear are those of my grandmother!</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Carlota Trelango.</span></p> +</div></div> + +<p>“And the flowers—behold!” she flung up +a window and leaned far out to throw them +down into the street. A street piano played below, +the wife of the owner turning the crank +with a stout bambino on one hip. “You throw +her some money now, maestro, so that both<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> +soul and body are fed. Who was it said, bread +for the body, white hyacinths—” She checked +herself, recalling suddenly that it had been +Dmitri who loved to chant Mahomet’s axiom, +but Jacobelli had not even noticed it. Grumblingly +he dropped a crumpled bill to the +woman’s extended apron.</p> + +<p>“You are not a spoiled child any longer,” +he told Carlota. “You are now a person of destiny. +Why, then, do you persist in acting like a +petulant marionette instead of the dignified +artiste. You cannot afford to rebuff Ward. He +is your patron. You are merely a little beggar +on the doorstep of hope, my child, and you +take on the airs of a queen.”</p> + +<p>“And here you have been telling me all +along that I must learn to be queenlike and +aloof.” Carlota sat back in the winged armchair +beside the fireplace. It was far too deep +and too high for her, having been selected +solely to accommodate the rotund proportions +of Jacobelli, but she preferred it. Some way, it +had the significance of a throne chair when she +felt herself holding the balance of power, as +now. “And if I am a person of destiny, then +how can anything that I do alter events?” +She laughed up at him softly, teasingly. He +looked away from her in somber disapproval. +“Oh, my dear, dear good teacher and friend,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> +she pleaded with swift reaction. “Forgive me. +I will try, indeed I will. What do you want me +to do? Anything but see Mr. Ward alone.”</p> + +<p>“You shall prepare for your début.” Jacobelli +took up her challenge instantly. “Casanova +will place you on the list for next season. +That will give you an entire year for more +study. And you shall flame forth in glory as +Margherita or Gilda—”</p> + +<p>“Why not Santuzza or Aïda?” Carlota’s +temper rose at his suggestion. “Let me sing +these, my maestro, when I am stout and placid +some day, but now, give me the new rôles.”</p> + +<p>“You seek the spectacular,” he accused. +“You would be like all of the women. They +must have the greatest rôle of all written for +them alone, dedicated to them. Ah, do I not +know!”</p> + +<p>Maria arrived in time to prevent his tirade +against whims. She listened in delight as he +told of the interview with Casanova.</p> + +<p>“After it is all settled, she will be sweet and +docile once more,” she promised. “She has not +been the same even to me since that night at +Mr. Ward’s.”</p> + +<p>“You think that is the reason, eh?” Jacobelli +stared moodily before him, feeling it was +the proper time to enlighten Maria. And yet, +how? Were not his suspicions based on air?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> +Only the voice down in the Square was actually +proof to himself, and how could he prove +it to others, when he had not even traced it?</p> + +<p>“For one thing, she is studying too hard, I +think,” Maria pursued earnestly. “Four lessons +a week and such long ones; are they not +too much for the child, signor?”</p> + +<p>“Four?” repeated Jacobelli, one bushy eyebrow +lifting in amazement. “She tells you she +has four lessons a week?”</p> + +<p>“Two hours in the morning, two in the afternoon. +It is very strenuous, I think.”</p> + +<p>“Doubtless so.” He rose and paced the floor +with rising agitation. Carlota had come to his +studio three times each week, for a two-hour +lesson only. Here was proof positive that she +was straying somewhere into forbidden paths. +“It is absolutely imperative, signora,” he began +huskily, when the suspected one came +from the inner room, humming to herself from +the love tragedy of Mélisande. “Imperative +that she make her début next year,” he finished +conclusively. “Delays are dangerous, +especially when one is overstudying.”</p> + +<p>The hidden rebuke passed completely by +Carlota, as she said good-bye, sparkling and +confident, and Jacobelli pondered, with a sense +of responsibility, feeling that he alone knew +the real reason for her deception. Possibly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> +Ptolemy or Dmitri might have enlightened +him still further. Necessarily Carlota’s visits +had become more frequent, since she was to +sing the leading rôle in Ames’s operetta. He +had won her consent after many arguments +and stormy scenes. Six times in one week he +had been summoned to Belvoir to consult with +Mrs. Nevins about her fête. Four times the +black car with its buff and old gold interior had +waited his convenience outside the old brownstone +row on Fourth Street, and when Carlota +arrived for her lesson, she had found only +Ptolemy in possession. Yet Ames had argued +her into agreeing with him, that this was his +great opportunity to present his operetta under +the most favorable auspices.</p> + +<p>“And you are to sing Fiametta,” he told her +positively. “You are the perfect type for her, +dear, a slim, aloof little princess, questing for +love. Can you get the two costumes, the peasant’s +for the fête, and the princess’s when she +is in the castle? I suppose you could manage +the first out of your own wardrobe, and we +will have to rent the other royal raiment.”</p> + +<p>He was like a boy over the fun of actually +preparing the production. Carlota looked at +him unforgivingly, even appraisingly, if one +could appraise joy.</p> + +<p>“I will never, never sing at the house of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> +Mrs. Nevins. She has nothing in the whole +world but money—nothing. She is utterly +impossible. She does not even know how to +patronize graciously.”</p> + +<p>“But, dear heart, you must forget her entirely. +You are not doing this for her. It is for +your own home land and the people you love +there, for their relief.”</p> + +<p>“But there is not a single person in your +company with whom I care to be seen. You +have not one single artist, no one but these +society girls. I would never appear with them. +I am a professional.”</p> + +<p>He laughed at her vehemence and hauteur. +It was as if Ptolemy had taken offense and +expostulated against the privileged classes. +He held her hands fast in his.</p> + +<p>“You will, too. It will be over in no time, +and I ask it for myself, Carlota. I am absolutely +selfish about it. You are my Fiametta. I +wrote it for you. No one else could ever sing it. +You know you were its sole inspiration. And +who will know you out there? It is only to lend +me your wonderful voice for our success, and +some day I shall see that you sing it at the +grand opera. Don’t you want me to win out?”</p> + +<p>He placed his hand under her obstinate, +pointed little chin. Who was it had written,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="indent3">“her perfect, fruit-shaped chin,</div> +<div class="verse">Such as Correggio loved to paint”?</div> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>And her small, thoroughbred head with its +close, brown curls, the splendid depth and luster +of her dark eyes, the clean, fine curve of +chin and throat, they were an ever-new delight +to him. She lifted her lashes slowly and +met his gaze with accusing eyes.</p> + +<p>“Will—will this girl, your new pupil, sing a +rôle also?”</p> + +<p>“Surely, dear,” he told her confidently. +“One must throw some sops to Cerberus, +three-headed monster of wealth and otherwise. +She will only have the mezzo rôle of Nedda. +But you will be my princess girl, singing my +‘Quest of Love’ for love of Italy and me. And +some day, when we are very rich, just we two, +we will go to Italy and find your Villa Tittani +with its rose-tinted walls. Would you climb +them to find me?”</p> + +<p>Carlota smiled up at him, a flash of quick +mischief in her glance.</p> + +<p>“And what of your father who lives in +Colorado? Would he allow you to”—she +hesitated for the word: he had not said to +marry—“to go away after love quests for +rose-walled villas?”</p> + +<p>“Dad wouldn’t say a word if I had produced +several successful operas.” Ames went +over to the window and stared quizzically +down at the Square. “The verdict of your family<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> +rests solely on the world’s verdict first. +That’s the last word with Dad, success; +whether you can change your dreams into +reality, kind of like the old alchemist’s trick +with lead into gold. The difference is that, to +us, it is the dreams that are more real than the +consummation, eh, dear? Forget about him. +Let’s figure out about your costume.”</p> + +<p>“I can get both, signor,” she promised demurely; +“and they will be perfectly correct, I +promise.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t call me that. Say Griffeth, or Griff. +It isn’t exactly a pet name, but I rather like it. +I got it from some old Welsh forbear. Listen, +I know just what you should wear. Something +with a straight mediæval line like the velvet +gown you wore at the Phelpses the first night I +met you. I thought then how much you were +like some stray princess girl like Rostand’s +Lointaine. Remember, he called her his remote +princess.”</p> + +<p>Carlota slipped aside from his disturbing +nearness, and knelt by the fire to pet Ptolemy.</p> + +<p>“But that dress was not at all royal. I shall +amaze you with one truly magnificent.”</p> + +<p>He laughed at her boasting and insisted on +showing her his idea of the gown, draping her +with a long silken strip of piña cloth that made +a train from her slim shoulders. On the shelf<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> +above the door was a brown casserole in a perforated +silver stand, crown-shaped. It made a +perfect coronal, Ames declared gravely, setting +it down low over her curls, somewhat heavy +and Byzantine, but most becoming. Dmitri +came in to acclaim her, bringing with him the +first potted azalea he had happened to see in +the market. He set it down on the window-seat +in triumph.</p> + +<p>“See how much I love you!” he cried. “It +was very heavy, but I brought it, green tub +and all. Do you know why? Of course not, my +poor simpletons. It is because these flowers grow +wild in abundance in my native land. They are +like the roses of Sharon blossoming in our mountain +wildernesses, and the color is like the dawn +flush, like the maiden glow in the cheeks of our +girls.” He regarded the plant reflectively. “It +is very strange how precious a symbol of memory +becomes. My heart leapt when I saw it in +the window, all abloom. How do you like it?”</p> + +<p>“I always want to kneel before flowers,” +Carlota said softly, as she touched the petals +with her finger-tips lingeringly. “In Italy you +find flowers before the wayside shrines, and I +liked them better than churches. We had a +shrine in a grotto at the end of the garden—” +She stopped, but neither had noticed her words. +Dmitri was in a fine abstract mood.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>“Shrines are the proper places of worship,” +he stated positively. “Groves first, no mountain-tops. +All philosophers prefer the isolation +of the mountain-top; witness whoever thought +first of Parnassus, also Zarathustra and his +taste for peaks. Every heart is in reality a +secret shrine where the spirit may worship +beauty, truth, ideals, love, without distraction. +Why are you crowned to-day?” He broke off +abruptly to smile with a brooding tenderness +over Carlota.</p> + +<p>Ames answered for her, telling of the approaching +fête and of the production of his +opera.</p> + +<p>“And at last she has consented to sing Fiametta +for me, isn’t that great?” He spoke +with a certain carelessness that always aroused +Dmitri.</p> + +<p>“For you? And who are you?” he demanded. +“You are the eternal Harlequin, the +dancing, masked juvenile of all history and +fiction, the necessary evil in all romance. You +always win, no matter what cards Fate deals +you. You play with a stacked deck, I tell you +to your face, and your dice are loaded too. You +are a trickster, and none may win the hand of +Columbine from you. We, who are a million +times more worthy of her love, we, the thinkers, +the stable, faithful adorers, are not even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> +seen by her when you flirt your rapier, and +twirl before her eyes. I hate you.” He turned +to Carlota calmly. “Are you going to sing at +this fête?”</p> + +<p>She smiled in confusion at his earnestness.</p> + +<p>“I feel I must because its theme is all about +my princess of Castle Tittani. I am responsible +for it and its success.”</p> + +<p>“What name do you think would be good +for her to take, Dmitri? You know I do not +even know her own to this day. It is her whim +to hide it from me. I think if it were really a +beautiful one, she would tell, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Ignore him,” Dmitri told her gravely. +“Names are nothing. I thank God I was a +foundling. No, you did not know that, eh? +There is a certain road that leads to a monastery. +If I told you where it is and its name, you +would not know anything about it, but it is +very old, back to the Crusades, a place of +sanctuary for kings and road knights alike. +There is a shrine to Saint Demetra below it. I +was left before it, and a brother found me and +took me to the gray stone refuge. That is quite +all as a basis of fact, but I weave about it the +usual fantasy of desire. First, Demetra is only +our pagan goddess disguised. She is Demeter +of the harvest, the mother of food for the +world, the bountiful, the ever-pitiful. And I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> +was named Dmitri. Again, always your foundling +grows up, imagining he is the lost son of +the king, always of noble blood. But not I, +Dmitri.” He perched himself on the window-seat, +one arm around the azalea tub, smoking +peacefully. “I like to think there were many of +us, and before I came, my mother hoped to +save me, the unwanted one, from the crowded +life. I like to think she found courage, with my +coming, to put me forth to high adventure and +give me what you call ‘the big chance.’ So I +feel brotherhood with all the world; and when +I was fourteen, they put me out of the monastery +with a fair education and a fine digestion. +They feed you very well there. The only thing +is, I was undoubtedly ruined for the seats of +the mighty. A good digestion makes a man an +optimist, and I was taught to choose my food +wisely, without satiety. I paraphrase the +prophet. Behold, as a man eateth, so is he.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps they are all alive, your mother, +and the others,” Carlota almost whispered, as +she leaned towards him, listening intently.</p> + +<p>“See, I have made you believe in my fantasy, +too,” he smiled down at her. “Child, +even if they had existed, they would have died +under the sword of the Turks like all the rest. +I was called Kavec by my friends later on. It +has a pleasant meaning, the giver. I have not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> +found out yet what it is I give best to the +world, but you could have all I have.”</p> + +<p>“He is only trying to prove to you how selfish +I am and what a high-minded mountain +dweller he is,” laughed Ames. “The car is +downstairs and my appointment is for one. +You’ll go out with me to rehearsal Tuesday, +Carlota, then?”</p> + +<p>She rose with a little sigh. When Dmitri +talked she forgot the inevitable to-morrow of +reality.</p> + +<p>“Have courage to refuse if you are doing +it against your will,” urged Dmitri. “He is +merely a time-server.”</p> + +<p>“No.” She shook her head, meeting Ames’s +anxious eyes. “I will go Tuesday.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XII</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> learning of Fiametta’s rôle was a delight +to Carlota. Once she resolved to sing it at the +fête, she threw herself into it with all her heart. +Ames would turn from the piano and stare up at +her in amazement as she delivered the difficult +passages with a perfection of tone and harmony +that seemed unbelievable to him, considering +the training she had received.</p> + +<p>“You will be a sensation,” he told her. “The +beautiful Signorita Incognita. Sounds florid, +doesn’t it? I want a stately, aloof name for +you. Listen, at the dress rehearsal, don’t be too +distant with Mrs. Nevins. She really can help +you if she wants to.”</p> + +<p>Carlota’s fine dark brows had lifted at this, +but she had not revolted. She had all of the +true artist’s consistency and faithfulness to a +rôle, once assumed. When the day arrived, and +she went out to Belvoir to the dress rehearsal +in the Nevins’s car, she played her part with +a vivid charm and adaptability that puzzled +Ames. She had her peasant’s costume with her +for the fête, but not the royal raiment.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nevins picked her way through the +transformed ballroom past decorators and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> +carpenters, more like the sprightly Queen of +Trianon at her amusements than ever. Her +white curly hair was dressed in high waves, +her house-gown of black chiffon velvet trailing +behind her, and one bewildered Pekinese dog +trying to rest itself on her train whenever she +paused.</p> + +<p>“My dear Griff, it is wonderful the progress +you have made!” she exclaimed. “Nathalie is +completely enthralled over her rôle. Such a +tender, appealing little part, isn’t it? One +feels she is merely the toy of fate, torn from +her love by the caprice of the princess. I have +spoken to Casanova of the operetta and he has +half promised to come out. Such a delightful +and distinguished audience for your first +effort, the Italian ambassador and his wife, +Ogden Ward, Count and Countess Triolini, +court painter to Humbert years ago, and +Count Jurka, who was court chamberlain to +the unhappy Queen Sophia. The most charming +and unexpected sequence of this fearful +war business has been the eager willingness of +one-time enemies to coöperate now in these +little relief funds. We must all pull together, +mustn’t we, and forget now. Jurka is the +handsomest thing you ever saw; looks like a +Zenda hero and all that sort of thing. He is +studying our relief methods for the rehabilitation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> +of the wounded, a special mission for the +exiled queen; so dear of her, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>Carlota, sitting behind them, heard without +noting the names. Her mind was on Nathalie +and her assumption of authority over Ames. +It was impossible for her to avoid seeing it. +She had watched them together constantly. +Nathalie was beside him all the time, consulting, +directing, planning on every detail. She +called him by his nickname with a little, indolent +proprietary intonation that enraged +Carlota. Yet she had kept her temper, and +had sung her own rôle with ease and surety.</p> + +<p>“Are you quite sure,” Nathalie had asked +her, “that your gown will be of the period and +quite appropriate? It is too bad you could not +have worn it to-day so we might be certain. +You understand, of course, mamma would be +only too pleased to secure exactly the right +one for you if you wish.”</p> + +<p>“It is most kind of you,” smiled back Carlota +serenely. “I have my gown. It is of the +period and suitable for the princess.”</p> + +<p>“What name did you wish on the programme? +I didn’t quite catch it, and we are +correcting the last proof on them to-day.”</p> + +<p>Carlota thought quickly and gave her new +name with a flash of mischief.</p> + +<p>“Paola Roma.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>“Oh, yes, you are really Italian, aren’t +you? How interesting! Griff told us that you +had given him the little story that inspired the +operetta.” Nathalie’s slim fingers were busy +with her hair, puffing out the soft blond +strands until it looked bobbed. “Of course,” +she added thoughtfully, “it’s one thing to +give the idea, but quite another to have made +it a reality, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“I do not consider this a reality of Mr. +Ames’s hopes or inspiration.” Carlota’s heavy-lidded +eyes glanced over the ballroom interior +as if it had been the side-show of some carnival. +“This is really nothing but a dress rehearsal +from start to finish for him. The reality will be +at the grand opera itself next year.”</p> + +<p>“If mamma and Signor Casanova think it +worth while,” Nathalie added smilingly. “It +was so nice of you to come out to-day. Griff +has talked of you a great deal but rather +made you out a little tiger cat in temperament. +He told us how you broke the flower +jar. You mustn’t have any attacks out here +to-morrow night, will you? We’ll all promise +to make everything easy for you.”</p> + +<p>“Better to break the flower jar than to flat +your B,” laughed Carlota wickedly, and the +girl flushed quickly.</p> + +<p>Ames had pleaded with her for nearly fifteen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> +minutes to beware of one high note she always +missed the purity of. The quick rap of his +baton called them to attention, but the sparkle +did not leave Carlota’s eyes, and on the way +home she was silent and unresponsive.</p> + +<p>She had planned a dozen different ways how +to escape from Maria’s watchfulness the following +night. Almost she had decided to take +the Marchese into her confidence, and beg +him to coax the signora away for the evening. +It could not possibly go on much longer, the +deception, nor did she wish it to. She would +appear for him this once, secure the triumph +for him, and afterwards the visits to the Square +would cease. He was too absorbed, too selfish, +she told herself passionately. He was stupid, +too, else he would never have been deceived +by her voice. If he had loved her, he would +have found out about her at all hazards. She +had given him freely, all she knew of art, had +even given him the theme for his operetta, +and he was thankless, as Dmitri said. He took +it for granted that she was a girl of the people, +from the Italian quarter below the Square, +when, if he had merely thought twice, he +might have known, as the protégée of the +Marchese Veracci that first night he had seen +her, she must have been somebody unusual.</p> + +<p>“Shall I take you to the entrance?” Ames<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> +asked, as they neared the apartment. “You +are tired, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Stop at the subway station in the Circle. I +will take a taxi over from there, and say I have +been shopping. Maria is not home, anyway. +She had a call from her lawyer here—” Suddenly +she turned and faced him. “How did +you know where I lived? I did not know what +I was saying.”</p> + +<p>He took both hands in his, drawing her to +him tenderly.</p> + +<p>“Dmitri told me you were from peacock +land. That is what he calls it up this way. He +has a friend who knows you and gave it away.”</p> + +<p>“A friend who knows me, Dmitri?” she repeated +in surprise. “But I—we have no +friends here. What did he tell you?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all, except that you lived in an +apartment near Central Park, when I had +pictured you on Mulberry or Spring, enriching +the quarter with your sweetness. And I was +tempted to go to the old Marchese and ask +him all about you.”</p> + +<p>She drew her hands from his, shrinking +from the mere mention of such a possibility, +foreseeing the excitement that would follow. +Maria, Jacobelli, would the Marchese deem +it his duty to tell them?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>“Listen to me,” she said, with the somber +earnestness that sat so oddly on her youth. +“I forbid you ever to discuss me with any one. +When I wish you to know all about me, I myself +will tell you. You understand?”</p> + +<p>“And I am supposed to bow and say the +queen can do no wrong,” laughed Ames. “You +will tell me yourself after the fête to-morrow +night. There will be a little time between the +end of the operetta and the dancing. Mrs. +Nevins has arranged a special little celebration +for a few and I shall have to stay for that, but +I’ll send you back in the car safely.”</p> + +<p>“I wish you to leave me here,” she said +abruptly.</p> + +<p>The car had turned into Park Avenue from +Fifty-Ninth Street, and against every protest +she left him, walking north towards the St. +Germain, hardly caring whether he watched +her destination or not. As she turned into the +vestibule, the Marchese himself rose to greet +her, smiling, courtly, immaculately garbed as +if he had just stepped from a reception at the +Quirinal. After Ames’s threat the sight of him +almost weakened her; and she gave him her +hand in silence.</p> + +<p>“I knew if I but waited long enough, you +would surely come,” he said jauntily. “And +the time was not long. I have been loitering in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span> +the tobacconist’s shop at the corner. There is +a man whom one might talk with over the +coffee-cups in any famous center of the world, +Cairo, Bagdad, Calcutta, Constantinople, or a +desert khan in Persia. He was a worker in +enamels before the war, then a spy, and now, +behold, he sells cigarettes with a good conscience +to New Yorkers. An incipient seer.”</p> + +<p>Carlota was relieved as he occupied himself +with his own conversation. Maria had not returned +when they entered the apartment, and +she threw off her velvet cloak with relief.</p> + +<p>“I’ll make us some Russian tea, just as you +like it best,” she promised—“slices of orange +with whole cloves in them. Maria will come +soon. She went to see the lawyer about the +mistake on the jewels, something about the +customs, I think it was.”</p> + +<p>The Marchese sat erect.</p> + +<p>“The customs on the jewels?” he repeated. +“I saw to that myself when you entered the +port. There could be no possible error. Why +did she not consult me first? Who is this +person?”</p> + +<p>“A friend of Mr. Ward’s. Signor Jacobelli +recommended him, I believe. He thought she +might have paid too much, and offered to go +over the list with her.”</p> + +<p>“I do not care for our friend and good patron,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> +Mr. Ward.” The Marchese’s pointed +mustache rose higher. “There is something +sinister about him. Ah,” as Carlota brought a +tea-tray and set it beside him on a low stool, +“so did your beloved grandmother always +serve it in the terrace loggia. You have her +way exactly, my child, and her lovely hands.”</p> + +<p>Carlota piled cushions beside him, and +lighted the lamp beneath the tea-kettle. Then +she settled herself comfortably, and looked up +at him as she had so often in the days he spoke +of. Always it had been the Marchese who had +been her confidant.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think that Maria is looking +very tired?”</p> + +<p>“I thought her never more attractive and +charming than that evening at Mr. Ward’s.”</p> + +<p>“But since then. I don’t think that she goes +out enough,” Carlota insisted. “She is sacrificing +herself too much for me. I beg her to go +and she will not. She says she has nowhere to +go and she knows no one here excepting yourself.”</p> + +<p>“But, my dear child, it must not be!” exclaimed +the Marchese warmly. “Of course it +has been for your sake that she has secluded +herself here in New York. You can see what a +beauty she was in her day. Signora Roma! I +have heard La Scala resound with her praises,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> +rise to her triumph! She must not feel that she +is neglected or lonely, such a woman.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps if you would only tell her. She +needs some one who has known her at her +great moments, don’t you know?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly I know,” he reassured her. “It +was quite right of you to tell me. We will have +a beautiful, quiet little dinner for her to-morrow +night down at the Brevoort or Lafayette, +yes? Whichever she likes, and afterwards the +opera. The San Remo Company is here from +South America; not so wonderful as the Metropolitan, +but very delightful and intimate. You +persuade her for me, and then at the psychological +moment, as they say over here, we will +take her by storm and make her say yes.”</p> + +<p>The outer bell rang lightly.</p> + +<p>“Don’t tell her about it now,” warned +Carlota. “It must be done very diplomatically +or she will suspect us. Telephone to her later +that you have the seats and cannot take no +for an answer.”</p> + +<p>After he had gone Maria took her accustomed +siesta. Veracci had sought to interest +her by talking of the customs matter coming +up again, but she waved him from her laughingly.</p> + +<p>“I will not talk of anything disagreeable +with you. It is quite all right, merely a little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> +formality to go through. I assured them we +were not remaining here permanently and the +collection belongs in Italy. Mr. Ward had insured +me every courtesy there.”</p> + +<p>The Marchese had elevated his expressive +eyebrows, but did not press the point. After +his departure Carlota sat by the window, embroidering +a headband in rose and gold thread. +How was she to open the jewel chest without +Maria’s knowledge. And she must have them +for the princess’s court costume. There was +one gown of gold tissue over old-rose metal +cloth, an exquisite mediæval robe that lay +like a web of sunlight in one of the chests. The +court train was of crimson velvet embroidered +in seed pearls, and with it she longed to wear +the full set of the Zoroaster rubies. Since she +was to be his princess before these people, she +must bear herself royally for his sake.</p> + +<p>She sighed, and laid aside her work to look +down at the quiet street. Below strolled a +figure she recognized, Steccho, a belated sentinel. +He had lingered in the cigar-shop while +the Marchese chatted to his friend, the worker +in enamels. Halfway through the night he had +sat with him and Dmitri in a basement coffee-house +on East Twenty-Seventh Street, listening +to the new gospel of optimism which Dmitri +loved to spread, he who could see good in all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> +things and believed that service is the stabilizer +of humanity’s caprice. Yet, while Steccho had +listened and smoked, he had watched the face +of every newcomer eagerly, hoping to find one +fresh from Rigl. He was growing tired of +playing watchdog for Jurka.</p> + +<p>Carlota drew the curtains together as she +encountered his steady, uplifted gaze. Why +did this boy keep guard over her? she wondered, +and slowly smiled. He did not seem a +menace. There had been a look of admiration +in his eyes the day he had returned her gloves +to her. Jacobelli had told her she must prepare +to accept homage from all, and Ames had said +a friend of Dmitri’s had told him where she +lived. She looked out after him as he passed +leisurely down the street. In all the old-time +romances that she loved, there was the “shepherd +in the distance,” the page who caroled +unseen to Kate the queen, the gondolier who +dared to lift his heart to the rose that touched +a closed lattice. She wondered who he could +be.</p> + +<p>Maria sighed and stirred. The telephone +rang on the little painted stand, and Carlota +answered it. It was the Marchese, calling the +signora. She laughed softly as he spoke to her, +the color rising softly in her cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Cara mia, it is delightful of him,” she exclaimed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> +as she hung up the receiver. “He is +the most thoughtful, charming knight errant. +Ah, if you could have seen him thirty years +ago! The handsomest man in all Italy. He has +asked us to dine to-morrow with him and go to +see ‘The Jewels of the Madonna.’ It will do +you good. Jacobelli tells me you will have it in +your repertoire next year.”</p> + +<p>A curious light came in Carlota’s dark eyes, +a tender, half-penitent light. “The Jewels of +the Madonna,” and she was planning how to +secure the old jewels lying hidden away in the +Florentine chest by the fireplace. Even though +they were her own, she felt a secret, guilty +thrill over deceiving those who loved her. +Surely the “Quest of Love” led one far astray +and alone.</p> + +<p>But the signora was in a gaysome mood, +affectionate, pliable. She would have everything +en fête. Never was she so happy as when +planning a new costume that should charm +and bewilder. For the dinner she would wear +black velvet with a scarf of Roumanian gypsy +work, intricate embroidery of orange and black +that seemed made for her, Carlota said, as she +draped it around her statuesque shoulders.</p> + +<p>“You should wear a heavy necklace of topaz +with that, topaz and emeralds, or just topaz +set in silver.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>“Heart’s treasure, how you know the correct +touch. Get me the key of the small chest.”</p> + +<p>“But—aren’t you wearing it, dear, around +your neck?”</p> + +<p>Maria smiled at her delightedly, archly.</p> + +<p>“I find a new hiding-place for it daily, ever +since I have feared it was known we had them +here. To-day it is in the pot of cyclamen. Yesterday +I put it in the back of the clock. Am I +not wonderful?”</p> + +<p>Carlota laughed and discovered the key +planted carefully in the pot of cyclamen as she +said.</p> + +<p>“To-night you shall hide it and show if you +are a good mystifier. Look in the third tray +and get out the necklaces. They are in the large +tray.”</p> + +<p>The lock gave rustily. Carlota sat on the +floor with the tray on her lap, lifting out the +old necklaces in a dream. They were heavy +and old-fashioned, but set with perfect gems. +She found the topaz one and hung it around +the signora’s throat gently.</p> + +<p>“It is superb,” she sighed. “I was very attractive +in my prime, carina, but never like your +grandmother. Ah, jewels were made for her as +stars for the night. Here, pile them in my drawer +and pick out pearls for yourself. You will wear +white while you can. After thirty it is sad.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>The following day dragged slowly. Towards +evening Carlota suddenly pressed her cheek +with one palm as she sat at the piano. It was +nothing at all, she protested, a little faintness +and pain in her head.</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all!” exclaimed Maria stormily. +“When that miserable old slave-driver +Jacobelli is killing you! He thinks you are +made of steel. You must not go out to-night. I +will telephone Veracci at once and he will agree +with me.”</p> + +<p>But Carlota protested the Marchese would +be broken-hearted if neither of them put in an +appearance. He had his seats for the opera, +and had even assured her he would order special +delicacies from the chef he knew they +would enjoy. It would never do to disappoint +him. Maria must go, at all events.</p> + +<p>It seemed hours before the last hum of the +taxicab died away in the street below, and she +turned from the window after waving to Maria. +She was to go immediately to bed, relax utterly, +breathe deep, forget everything and +sleep. She had promised compliance faithfully, +and now stood hesitant, feeling herself a +traitor to all their love for her and kindness. +Only for this one night, she told herself, to +make sure of his success and she would never +go to the Square again. It was a twenty-minute<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> +run out to Belvoir once the Jamaica turnpike +was reached. She ordered a taxi softly over the +house telephone, and turned to the chest. Almost +wistfully and regretfully she drew the +key from the hiding-place Maria had let her +choose, in the back of an oval silver frame that +held her mother’s portrait. Would not Bianca +Trelango understand, more than any other, +her daughter’s temptation to aid her love?</p> + +<p>“You would not think it wrong, would +you?” she whispered, as she knelt before the +outspread treasures from the past. Maria kept +each piece of jewelry carefully separate and +wrapped in chamois, the pearls in one tray, the +rubies in another, and so on. The largest pieces +lay in their velvet cases at the bottom, tiaras +and stomachers. Carlota hunted through the +chest until she found all she longed for, the +rubies her grandmother had worn in “Semiramide.” +There were three pieces, the tiara, +necklace, and heavy girdle, each set with the +gems so thickly that she caught her breath +with delight. The rubies were clumsily cut and +needed polishing, but they glowed slumberously +against the black-velvet case, and the +center stone of the tiara was the superb Zarathustra +jewel itself, part of the plunder of Persia. +The necklace was in sixteen strands of +matched pearls with a double pendant of rubies.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> +As she stood up to try it around her neck, +she let the heavy golden girdle fall to the floor.</p> + +<p>The sudden noise startled her, and she listened, +one hand pressed hard against her beating +heart. The curtains were drawn at the +front windows, but were up here at the fire +escapes. She drew them carefully, and waited, +but there was no sound, nothing but the occasional +rumble of a street car over on Madison +Avenue.</p> + +<p>The telephone bell rang and she barely kept +back a cry of alarm, forgetting the taxi call she +had sent in. With the costumes in a suitcase +and the jewels in her traveling bag, she went +downstairs, whiter than usual, her eyes wide +and expectant.</p> + +<p>“Shall I take the bag outside, miss?” asked +the chauffeur. He reached for it solicitously, +but she held it on her lap with both hands, and +leaned back with closed eyes.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, no. Hurry, please. Belvoir, Mrs. +Carrington Nevins’s residence at Strathmore. +It is down near the shore past the country +club. Take the shortest way after you leave +the turnpike. How long will it take, do you +think?”</p> + +<p>“About an hour.”</p> + +<p>As the taxi turned into Park Avenue, she +leaned forward and drew the curtain hastily.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> +Standing on the corner, with his back to the +street, was Steccho talking to Dmitri. Neither +had seen her, but she left the curtains down all +the long, lonely way out to Strathmore, on the +north shore of Long Island. Already the rubies +had laid their crimson fear on her imagination, +and she dreaded she knew not what from the +two silent figures that lingered near her home. +Was Dmitri, too, one to be shunned and +doubted? Why did they seek her? She wished +with all her heart that she had taken the Marchese +into her confidence.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIII</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was after nine when the taxi wheeled around +the crescent drive at Belvoir. Carlota leaned +forward, her sense of beauty thrilled at the +effect of the place in the full moonlight. It was +modeled exactly, as Mrs. Nevins loved to explain, +after Diane de Poitiers’s love cote in +France, Chenonceaux.</p> + +<p>The fête was in full swing. She did not see +Ames anywhere, but told one of the footmen +who approached her that she was a singer on +the programme. He led the way back of the +gay crowd in the flower-festooned corridors to +an inner court that had been transformed into +an Italian village en fête.</p> + +<p>Standing at the head of a wide, curving +staircase was Mrs. Nevins, garbed as Vittoria +Colonna, the noble lady who was Michelangelo’s +inspiration. Nathalie stood near, a silk +domino only half concealing her chic peasant +dress. At sight of her Carlota caught her +breath involuntarily. Even as a child she had +always loved the fêtes at the Villa Tittani, and +the distinguished guests who had flocked there +around the grand old Contessa. Here she was +merely an unknown singer, passing unnoticed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> +through a throng of strangers. The whimsicality +of it touched her sense of humor and +amused her. She was indeed Fiametta, moving +unknown among the villagers.</p> + +<p>Jacobelli stood chatting with Count D’Istria, +the ambassador. They were almost within +arm’s length of Carlota as she passed by them, +unseen and unseeing, her eyes seeking only for +Ames.</p> + +<p>“You are not overfond, then, of these society +theatricals?” asked the Count. “It is for an +excellent object, the milk fund for Italy.”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli lifted bored, deprecating eyebrows.</p> + +<p>“It is torture to me, but what would you? +The lady has a daughter with a voice, and she +will have none but Jacobelli’s opinion of its +quality. Therefore I come to-night to oblige. +But, ah, Count, if you could but hear my genius, +my star of evening who will shortly, before +another season, burst into full splendor. You +recall La Paoli?”</p> + +<p>D’Istria nodded interestedly.</p> + +<p>“Many times I have heard my father speak +of her beauty and art. I have myself been to +her villa during her last years. She reigned +there at Tittani as an ex-empress might have +done.”</p> + +<p>“She was incomparable,” Jacobelli murmured<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> +contentedly. “Then possibly you may +recall the grandchild whom she adored, Bianca’s +daughter. Her father was the young +artist from Florence whom Paoli befriended, +Peppino Trelango.”</p> + +<p>The Count nodded and smiled. A child with +eyes such as Del Sarto loved to paint. Yes, +he remembered her. Delightedly, then, the old +maestro launched into the romance of the +old Contessa’s death, of how Maria Roma +had brought Carlota to America, of the Marchese’s +interest in her, and how Ogden Ward +had insured her success with his patronage.</p> + +<p>D’Istria shook his head at the mention of +the financier.</p> + +<p>“I would keep her out of his reach,” he advised. +“She is too young to parry the advances +of such a man. Mind, I admire him greatly. He +is a power in the world, a very great patron of +the arts if you will, but likewise, Jacobelli, of +the artistes. Arm’s length, I beg.”</p> + +<p>“He will be here to-night.” Jacobelli +scanned the crowd, his five feet five overtopped +by many. Suddenly his eyes glowed +with interest, seeing a newcomer enter the +court enclosure. “Is that not Jurka? I have +not seen him since 1915. He was here on some +government work, an attaché at Washington. +A very handsome fellow, isn’t he?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>D’Istria did not glance behind him. Arms +folded, he stood almost at attention, his lips +compressed slightly, his eyes watching Mrs. +Nevins as she came down the wide staircase +with Griffeth Ames.</p> + +<p>“There is the type of man whom I admire,” +he said. “He has life and inspiration in his face, +and he walks like one who has ridden the air.”</p> + +<p>“I do not know him.” Jacobelli overlooked +the stranger blandly. “Casanova told me Mrs. +Nevins is a collector of celebrities. This is +some youngster whose operetta she is to give a +little try-out to-night, his first chance. I shall +leave as soon as the daughter finishes her aria.”</p> + +<p>But the Count appeared interested in the +blond youngster, and merely followed with his +gaze the slim, distinguished figure of the Bulgarian +ex-attaché, as the latter moved through +the throng.</p> + +<p>The suite reserved for the singers and other +entertainers was on the second floor. Carlota +resented the line of demarcation between the +professionals and the society participants, but +Ames came to her as soon as he could relinquish +Mrs. Nevins to Jurka. He was so happy +and buoyant, she dared not say anything to +curb or quell his enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“Forget them all, dear,” he whispered to +her. “Think of what this may mean for us<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> +both. I wish Casanova were here. She tried to +get him, but he hates these society round-ups, +and I don’t blame him. Did you find your +dressing-room? I got one for you alone.”</p> + +<p>After he had gone one of the maids assisted +her to unpack and slip into the court costume. +There was a full-length mirror in the inner +door. She regarded her reflection in it gravely +as the woman arranged her curls, combing +them into soft full clusters around her shoulders. +The deep, vivid color of the gown was +strikingly becoming to her.</p> + +<p>“You should have some jewels—” she began.</p> + +<p>“They are all there, in my handbag,” Carlota +directed. As she opened the cases the maid +gave a smothered exclamation of surprise, and +glanced sharply at this girl pupil of Ames, +who, she had heard the other servants say, had +come from the Italian quarter in New York. +Her experience told her these were real jewels +and worth thousands of dollars.</p> + +<p>“You will wear them all, miss?” she asked +curiously, lifting the heavy stomacher of gold +links, delicate as certain fragile shells.</p> + +<p>Carlota nodded and set the tiara on her head +herself. The great Zarathustra ruby in its +center glowed and sparkled as if it held a heart +of fire. She held out her hands for the necklace.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>“Do you like them?” she asked simply, +smiling for the first time at the maid. “They +came from Italy and were my grandmother’s.”</p> + +<p>“From Italy?” The woman straightened +back her shoulders. “I am from Averna myself. +You know Averna, near Roma?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, do I not!” Carlota clasped her hands +suddenly to her throat, the tears rising hot and +quick to her lashes. Averna, the little tiny village +one might see from the end of the gardens, +Averna with its songs lifting on the evening air, +and its little children clambering up the long +steep rocky road, the young goats tumbling +around them. “I—my home was near there, +the Villa Tittani.”</p> + +<p>The woman knelt at her feet, folding her +hands to her lips rapturously, and back on her +feet in an instant, calm-faced.</p> + +<p>“See how small the sea and world are,” she +said. “I do not work here. I am an extra for +to-night, and I find a face that has looked on +Averna. I know Tittani well—”</p> + +<p>A rap came at the door and Ames’s voice, +calling to her to hurry. Carlota sighed, drawn +back from the old days.</p> + +<p>“Lay out the peasant dress, please, and +don’t forget the scarf for the head. It is hand-embroidered +on old linen in red and yellow.”</p> + +<p>Before the operetta she ventured to steal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> +out of a small balcony from the upper corridor, +overlooking the inner court below. Although +it was still early, they were dancing in one of +the smaller rooms. She saw Ames enter with +others, and recognized Nathalie even in her +domino. All of the débutantes who were to +sing wore them. And was it not as Dmitri +warned her? He was a success with these people, +she thought, wistfully. He was to reap a +triumph to-night, and she had been foolish +enough to risk her whole career for his, to +jeopardize her future merely to make his +operetta a success.</p> + +<p>The woman from Averna had struck a chord +of memory that unnerved her. She felt the +lonely sorrow of Fiametta, the princess in disguise, +seeking her love at the festa, and finding +him only as the dancing Harlequin.</p> + +<p>Ames sought her once more before the overture. +The maid had thrown a black silk domino +around her when she was ready to go down to +the improvised stage, and she drew the hood +closely over her head, concealing the tiara.</p> + +<p>“All right?” he whispered confidently. +“Keep your nerve, dear. It all depends on you, +after all. Fiametta carries the action and +sympathy.”</p> + +<p>She smiled back into his eyes in silence, +compliant to his wishes, eager for his success.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> +Nathalie pressed past them with several +other girls, and laid her hand on his arm.</p> + +<p>“We’re looking everywhere for you, Griff!” +she cried. “Mamma’s so afraid you might forget +the supper-dance afterwards. It’s only for +a few, and we want you to stay. Will you, just +for me?”</p> + +<p>He passed down the long stairs with them +and she heard no more, but as she followed the +maid down to the stage, a flood of fiery rebellion +swept over her, and waiting for the +music, there was the look of Paoli in her +pose and flashing eyes.</p> + +<p>D’Istria and Jurka had avoided each other +by tacit mutual consent. One long look they +had interchanged, and the ambassador’s eyebrow +had raised ever so slightly. He had given +no sign of recognition, but even to Jacobelli +the enmity between the two men was unmistakable. +He would have been more interested +in it, possibly, had not Ogden Ward arrived +late, and he remained with him, telling him of +Casanova’s offer.</p> + +<p>The first strains of opening music caught +his ear. Ames did not call it an overture. It +was not pretentious enough for that. It was +merely a prelude, a mingled fantasy of Italian +village-fête melodies, the harmonies that +spring involuntarily from the very life-blood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> +of a people. Jacobelli listened in alert surprise. +This unknown composer had caught the secret +and had woven it into his opera. He hunted +covertly for his programme. The name on it, +“Griffeth Ames,” meant nothing to him nor +did that of the soprano, Paola Roma. Had he +been suspicious, Carlota’s twirling about of +names to suit her fancy might have given him +a clue, but as it was, his professional interest +in the composer absorbed him, and he passed +the name by.</p> + +<p>In the opening duet between Peppino and +Nedda he suffered visibly, whispering to +D’Istria.</p> + +<p>“Ah, money, what crimes are committed in +thy name! They choke art, these people; they +strangle it to death with cash and coupons.”</p> + +<p>The action of the operetta was swift. Peppino +had come to the castle with his daily +catch. His sweetheart follows him, jealous of +his admiration for the princess and his lingering +in her garden. From the bower window in +the tower, Fiametta watches him, and, half-hidden, +hears him sing his love for her, “a +certain star beyond all love of mine!” Peppino +promises Nedda she shall be his choice +at the festa the following day, and their betrothal +announced, and she leaves, satisfied. +The princess lingers in the garden after they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> +have gone and sings “Cerca d’Amore,” the +quest of love.</p> + +<p>It was on this aria that Ames based his +greatest hope, and even as he led the orchestra, +he sensed back of him the thrill which ran +over the audience at the entrée of Carlota. He +himself stared up at her in blank amazement. +She had worn her silk domino up to the final +moment and he had not seen her costume. But +now, as she lifted her voice in the opening +strains of the “Quest” song, he stared and +marveled.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nevins lifted her pince-nez and never +lowered it until the curtain fell on the interlude. +Then she remarked to the woman next +her in tones which demanded an explanation +from Mr. Ames, “That girl is wearing a fortune +in real jewels!”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli was near-sighted. Hindered by the +crowd from a clear view of the stage, the +Fiametta motif did not warn him of what was +about to happen, but the first notes of Carlota’s +voice shocked him into attention. She was +singing as never before. The rôle appealed to +her, the lonely little princess planning her disguise +at the fête, seeking her fisher-boy love. +Her rendering of the aria was a sensation. He +caught a glimpse of D’Istria’s face, of Ward’s, +and trembled with emotion. In front of him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> +was a large, stately grande dame with opera +glasses. He reached for them out of her hand +imperatively.</p> + +<p>“You permit, if you please? I cannot see. It +is most imperative that I see, you understand?”</p> + +<p>She stared at him ineffectually, but Jacobelli +was far too engrossed to notice her. He +had recognized Carlota through the lenses, +and the color rose thickly to his face. The +tragic truth burst upon him. His star had been +stolen from him by this young unknown composer, +his flower of genius was already plucked +before his eyes, and flaunted at this miserable +society fête as the pupil of another.</p> + +<p>Even while he stood with the glasses held +close to his eyes, a hand reached over his +shoulder, a peremptory hand, accustomed to +obedience, and took the glasses from him.</p> + +<p>“You will pardon me,” Count Jurka said +gently. “It is very urgent that I see closely.”</p> + +<p>Impotently Jacobelli glared at him. The +Count’s face was absolutely expressionless. +Possibly Georges might have guessed that his +master was laboring under sudden excitement +from the extreme pallor which accentuated his +resemblance to a statue. Calm, youthful, and +blond, he seemed the embodiment of possibly +Endymion or Ganymede, a slender, effete<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> +godling, bored, as Dmitri had said, by the +ennui of satiety.</p> + +<p>Ward’s face as he watched Carlota wore an +amused, satirical expression. During the interlude +Jacobelli started to speak to him, but +was silenced by the “Hush” of those nearest +him. Ames’s music held society under a spell, +and Mrs. Nevins was conscious of a strange +mingling of satisfaction and resentment over +the girl Carlota daring to appear with an array +of jewels not one woman in the crowd could +have equaled.</p> + +<p>The climax of the operetta was the stabbing +of Fiametta at the feast. Nathalie sang Nedda +with an immature insouciance that was in +character with the rôle. Peppino was sung by +Jolly Allan, a young bachelor with a rich, +reckless sort of voice. When he danced with +the masked princess at the festa, Nedda +stopped him in a jealous fury, demanding why +he had neglected her. He answered with the +“Quest of Love,” the beautiful waltz song of +the princess. Together, as they sing it, they +dance, until suddenly Nedda stabs her unknown +rival, and as she dies in Peppino’s +arms, she is unmasked and the people recognize +their princess.</p> + +<p>The curtain fell in a tumult of acclamation. +Count Jurka was already bowing low over the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> +hand of his hostess. It was with the utmost +regret he must take his leave thus early. Only +the opportunity of attending her fête could +have brought him out from town. He congratulated +her on securing the services of—ah, +what was the young girl’s name—Miss Roma? +He stepped back to make room for Ward.</p> + +<p>Jacobelli had broken away from the crowd, +and was finding his way to the dressing-rooms +beyond the balcony. Ames was already there +before him, proud and joyous, forgetting +everything but Carlota and her amazing triumph. +At the entrance to the green and ivory +salon off the balcony, the maestro encountered +Nathalie, and poured forth his suspicions to +her.</p> + +<p>“This young singer, this girl, what do you +call her?”</p> + +<p>“You mean Miss Roma?” She smiled at +him innocently. “Why, she’s a pupil of Mr. +Ames, I believe, from the Italian quarter back +of where he lives on Washington Square.”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli stared at her. The memory of the +duet from “Bohème” came back to him with +a jolt of pain. It had been her voice, then, that +day. He had not been mistaken.</p> + +<p>“Ah, but everybody is crazy!” he exclaimed +heatedly. “She is my pupil, Carlota Trelango, +the greatest coming singer of the age! Where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> +is she? See, I will confront her. I will show him +up and prove that she is my pupil.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>With her hand drawn through his arm, Ames +was leading Carlota down the opposite flight +of stairs into the court when she suddenly +drew back.</p> + +<p>“Please, I can’t go down there,” she whispered, +pleadingly. “Let me go home at once. +I—I am not well; I want to leave now.”</p> + +<p>Through the crowd came Ward towards +them leisurely, with the abstracted air that +was his habitually, but he had already seen +her, and she shrank back from his amused, +twisted smile that seemed to degrade all that +this had meant to her. Before Griffeth could +detain her, she had turned and sped back up +the crimson carpeted staircase into the long +salon, and there came face to face with Jacobelli.</p> + +<p>“Ingrate!” he gasped explosively, beating +the air with both hands at sight of her. He +wheeled about on Ames. “You—you say you +are the great teacher—the maestro, when +you take my greatest pupil from me—from +Jacobelli!”</p> + +<p>“It’s a damned lie!” Ames retorted shortly. +“She is not your pupil. I’ve been teaching +her for weeks, months, myself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>“But she knows nobody here in America; +it is utterly impossible!” cried the old maestro. +“For two years I have taught her all I know. +You know not what you say.”</p> + +<p>Ames caught the glances of those around +them and bit his lip to keep back the words +he longed to hurl at this wild-eyed, explosive +individual.</p> + +<p>“Pardon,” he said curtly. “Miss Roma is +my affianced wife. Now I am sure you will +give me credit for being aware of her identity.”</p> + +<p>“Listen to him!” Jacobelli’s rage boiled +over. He appealed to Nathalie and her little +group of girl friends, to Mrs. Nevins as she +approached them with Ward. “Mr. Ward, I +beseech—I demand that you assist me in +denouncing this impostor. Is not Carlota +Trelango my pupil and the granddaughter of +the great Margherita Paoli? Does she not +make her début at the Opera next season under +Casanova?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nevins moved forward deliberately, +and addressed Carlota.</p> + +<p>“Won’t you kindly end this distressing +scene, Miss Roma, and leave as soon as possible? +I thank you for your services.”</p> + +<p>Carlota stood an instant, hesitant and +proud. Ames held the little cold hand on his +arm in a close grasp. Head up, he was her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> +champion, but it was a question now which +adversary to engage first, so many assailed her. +In Nathalie’s blue eyes was lurking a challenging +ridicule as her gaze met his.</p> + +<p>And suddenly D’Istria appeared at the head +of the staircase with several friends. He came +forward into the salon and bowed low over the +hand Carlota extended to him wonderingly, +gratefully.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Count D’Istria,” she cried eagerly. +“You are here!”</p> + +<p>Perhaps D’Istria himself sensed the meaning +of the silent group around her. He answered +gently, deferentially.</p> + +<p>“After these years, signorina, it is with the +greatest pride for our Italy that I greet you +to-night. The last time you were weaving +chains of rosebuds at the old Contessa’s knee +in the garden of Tittani. Now, I find you wearing +a crown of laurel on your own little head.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Nevins caught her breath swiftly, but +Jacobelli murmured over and over, pacing the +length of the salon alone, as if it gave him the +only inward relief, the one word,</p> + +<p>“Ingrate!”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIV</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was quarter of eleven when Jurka’s car left +Belvoir. Along the shore road it sped, a low, +fleeting shadow lured by its own projecting +rays, as if some sinister genie of the night were +drawing it irresistibly on towards the city glow +in the west.</p> + +<p>The Count smoked thoughtfully, leisurely, +selecting cigarettes from a black and gold +enameled case as one selects favorites from a +seraglio. Fate had tendered him the information +he had come to America after, and he +already contemplated a pleasurable return to +Switzerland first, and then to Sofia with the +profits from what he cleverly dubbed Love’s +plunder.</p> + +<p>He had recognized them the instant Carlota +had stepped into the full light. First the tiara +with its splendid center ruby, the Zarathustra, +and the curious Byzantine setting. The ruby +was one of the three greatest in the world. It +had been taken, centuries before, from a shrine +of the Zoroastrians beyond the Caspian country. +Slipping from hand to hand it had brought +untold carnage and horror to the land whose +queen wore it on her brow. Only half a century<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> +before it had been coveted by a woman of the +Balkans whose ambition led her throneward. +She had been maid of honor to an emotional, +harassed queen, and had stepped over her dead +body to wed her son. The price of the ruby had +been one keen, swift knife-thrust through her +heart and another for the blundering, love-blind +prince. Ten years after, the ruby had +been found in a Cairo curio-shop by one who +knew its value, and had been sent out to seek +the jewel marts of Amsterdam. It had been +returned to the Bulgarian state coffers until +Paoli, in the zenith of her beauty and fame, +had received it from the hands of the crown +prince, mounted in the tiara with other gems +fit to bear it company.</p> + +<p>The girl Carlota could not be aware of the +value or tremendous significance of the rubies, +Jurka reflected, else why should she subject +herself to the danger of wearing them in public? +Taken with the necklace and stomacher, +they represented an immense sum, entirely +apart from their peculiar antiquarian value. +Yet she had donned them for this charity fête +as if they had been paste.</p> + +<p>Touching the mother-of-pearl button concealed +in the buff suède cushions, he drew a +small, black-belted card-case from his breast +pocket, and opened a folded oblong of thin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> +tracing-paper. Drawn upon it delicately was +a perfect sketch of the settings holding the +crown rubies. Jurka held it close to the shaded +bulb, studying the detail carefully until the +car approached the city.</p> + +<p>“Choose quiet streets,” he ordered through +the speaking-tube. “Make haste!”</p> + +<p>His early arrival was unexpected by Georges, +and the valet stood on guard as the key +sounded in the outer lock.</p> + +<p>“Pardon, excellenza,” he begged. “I did not +know whom to expect.”</p> + +<p>“Find me Steccho at once. Take him in a +taxi to the Park entrance at Columbus Circle. +Dismiss the car there and walk into the shadows +of the Park. I will pick you up a hundred +yards beyond the Monument at twelve-thirty.” +He paused to glance at his own reflection +in the long mirror, adding, as to his chauffeur, +“Make haste!”</p> + +<p>Back at Belvoir Carlota had dressed while +Jacobelli paced up and down outside her door. +The maid assisted her excitedly, fondling the +jewels and gown as she packed them.</p> + +<p>“You were a triumph, Miss Roma,” she +said. “They talk of nothing but you outside.”</p> + +<p>Carlota did not answer. Her face was pale +and determined. Jacobelli had telephoned the +Lafayette after demanding from her Maria’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> +whereabouts. He had had the Marchese paged, +and had asked him most sarcastically where +he imagined Carlota might be at that hour. +Where, returned the old Marchese genially, +but in her own bed, reposing restfully, after a +most severe headache?</p> + +<p>“She is not that,” stormed Jacobelli. “She +is out here—at Belvoir, Long Island, at the +home of Mrs. Nevins, wasting her voice for +charity with a person who claims he is her +teacher. I bring her back with me at once.”</p> + +<p>The Marchese protested that Carlota could +not have any wrong intentions, that Maria +must not be alarmed.</p> + +<p>“Alarmed!” repeated Jacobelli solemnly. +“I would so alarm her that never would she +permit the girl out of her sight until her début. +I tell you this is not a joke, Veracci. She has +scaled the wall of Tittani, mark me. You will +understand when you see this man. Meet us at +the apartment. Not only has she sung here to-night, +but she has wasted also the Paoli jewels. +She has worn the priceless rubies of Margherita +as if they were garnets.”</p> + +<p>He lingered in the corridor booth, and Ames +watched eagerly for a glimpse of Carlota before +she left. Mrs. Nevins was delicately, pointedly +cynical and distant with him.</p> + +<p>“My dear Mr. Ames, can’t you see that this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> +is all rather unpleasant for me? Of course the +girl is very pretty and her voice is a rarity, but, +after all, was it not somewhat unprofessional +and unsportsmanlike of you to enter her in a +race for amateurs, as it were?”</p> + +<p>“But I never dreamt for an instant that she +was from a famous or professional family,” +Ames denied earnestly. “I don’t believe that +ranting old rascal, anyway, not until I hear it +from her own lips.”</p> + +<p>“No?” she smiled. “Of course I did not +know she was engaged to you. But you believe +Count D’Istria surely. It all places me in a +most delicate situation and jeopardized the +success of the entire evening. Nathalie will be +prostrated to-morrow. She had such faith in +you.”</p> + +<p>“But I can explain everything,” Ames replied +moodily. Why on earth was Carlota lingering +so long when Jacobelli might reappear +any instant.</p> + +<p>“I fear the opportunity is lost, although I +do not doubt your aptitude for explaining anything.” +She gave him her hand with a little, +pitying smile. “She will be Jacobelli’s pupil +after to-night, Mr. Ames. If you will send me +your bill for expenses and services of Miss +Roma and yourself, my secretary will mail you +a check. Ah, my dear boy, you were too promising<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> +a genius to have permitted a little infatuation +for this girl to ruin your career.”</p> + +<p>She left him standing in the ivory and green +salon, furious and helpless. At length the door +of Carlota’s dressing-room opened, and she +emerged, slim and demure in her long black +velvet evening cloak. It was made with a +monk’s hood falling back from her head, and +as she hesitated, looking cautiously about for +Jacobelli, he thought of Juliet, awaiting the +return of the nurse in the garden.</p> + +<p>Before he could reach her Jacobelli appeared, +and took her resolutely under his care. +Only one long look passed between them, but +to Ames it was a promissory note from hope +drawn on to-morrow. As he stood alone after +they had gone, the Italian maid came from the +room, and gave him a note, her black eyes +filled with mystery.</p> + +<p>“It is from her,” she whispered. “My name +is Assunta Rizzio. My home is within sight of +the tower windows of hers in Italy, and I love +her. You may call upon me if you need me. +See, I live here.”</p> + +<p>He smiled gratefully, and crumpled the +card she gave him into his pocket while he +looked at Carlota’s last word:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>It is all quite true, but I am alone to blame. I +thought Mr. Phelps might have told you, and you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> +were but playing our little game with me, of Pierrot +and Columbine. Now, it is all over, is it not? +You will hate me for ruining your opera, and I do +not blame you. I am sorry, it is all I can say. I +thought I was helping you. Give my love to Dmitri. +He was right, was he not?—and behold, the +Princess Fiametta should never have left the wall +of Tittani.</p> +</div> + +<p>He passed down into the court. It was +nearly empty, only the few who remained for +Mrs. Nevins’s private supper and dance. +Ward talked with the ambassador, listening +as D’Istria told happily of his memories at the +old Contessa’s villa. As Ames approached, he +turned to him eagerly, his fine, lean face alert +with appreciation.</p> + +<p>“It was superb, Mr. Ames, a most beautiful +little conception. I trust that you may have a +public production before long.”</p> + +<p>The praise was unexpected, coming after the +scene with Jacobelli and Mrs. Nevins. Griffeth +felt almost a boyish gratitude surge through +him warmly, and he thanked D’Istria with a +break in his voice.</p> + +<p>“The score is in Casanova’s hands now,” he +told him, while Ward’s gray eyes never left his +face. “I had hoped he might be here to-night.”</p> + +<p>“He could not. To-night he gives a large +reception himself after the concert at the Ritz. +It will give me great pleasure to draw his attention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> +to the score when I see him, if you will +permit.”</p> + +<p>With the ambassador’s hand-clasp toning +his new outlook on life and opportunity, Ames +passed the long half-circle of waiting cars in +the courtyard, and made for the station on +foot. Dmitri had been right in his estimate of +patronage. In the reaction he longed for a +quiet talk and smoke with him beside the copper +brazier.</p> + +<p>As Carlota came into the glow of the porte-cochère’s +spreading light, Jacobelli took her +handbag from her.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Ward is kind enough to take you to +your home,” he said authoritatively. “He will +be here presently.”</p> + +<p>He set her two suitcases in beside her, but +she neither answered him nor even met his +glance. Sinking back in the corner of the heavily +cushioned car, she closed her eyes, feigning +utter weariness. It was Griffeth’s last look that +haunted her thoughts. Would the girl Assunta +give him her note. She knew that she had done +wrong professionally, that she had been guilty +of almost an unpardonable error, yet it was +not of Ward she thought, nor of Casanova and +the chance that she might lose the financier’s +patronage. The tender irresistible harmonies +of “Cerca d’Amore” filled her brain. She could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> +barely resist humming them, and smiling defiantly +at the two moody faces after Ward +joined them, and the car turned towards the +city. Ward smoked small black cigars until the +interior of the car was hazy with smoke and +the maestro coughed irritably, but the other +man paid no attention to him, merely watched +Carlota. Jacobelli rambled on during the trip, +but always striking the same motif.</p> + +<p>“This to me, to Jacobelli! My greatest pupil +jeopardizes her whole career by appearing prematurely +at a charity fête for an unknown composer.”</p> + +<p>“I did it for love of Italy,” Carlota told him +with sudden passion. “If you were truly a patriot, +you would be glad.”</p> + +<p>“Love of Italy!” Jacobelli groaned at her +stroke of diplomacy. “Bah! Love, yes, but not +for Italy. You are infatuated with this nobody, +this lapper from the saucer of cream +people like Mrs. Nevins sets for patronage. +This is not the professional strain in you of the +Paoli. This is the Peppino Trelango strain. He +delighted in the silken cushion, the easy path +of the rich patron. You are an ingrate!”</p> + +<p>He folded his arms and leaned back austerely. +Carlota forced herself to keep silent before +Ward. He moved, shifting his position so +that he might see her better. She had drawn the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> +velvet monk’s hood over her head, but every +arc light they passed threw a flashing radiance +into the car and showed him her pure, beautiful +profile, delicately Roman, and the glamour +of her near presence unnerved him.</p> + +<p>“And those jewels which you have not the +sense to value!” burst forth Jacobelli again. +“I shall warn the Marchese to act at once as +your guardian and place them in the safety-deposit +vault. You shall not have them to play +with.”</p> + +<p>“I do not want them in the vault. I shall +sell them and pay you and Mr. Ward for everything +and return to Italy with Maria.”</p> + +<p>“To Italy!” repeated Jacobelli dryly. “Ben +trovato! With this boy here.”</p> + +<p>Ward looked with musing eyes at the bag +beside the maestro.</p> + +<p>“When you are ready to dispose of them,” +he said deliberately, “come to me. I did not +know you were in possession of these, but I +have heard of the rubies. I collect rare jewels. +The Zarathustra would be brought to me by +dealers ultimately, and I prefer to pay you the +full price if you wish to part with it.”</p> + +<p>“I will remember,” Carlota said clearly, +meeting his eyes for the first time.</p> + +<p>They left him at the Fifth Avenue entrance +to his club. He made no further allusion to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> +rubies, and Carlota forgot them in listening +to Jacobelli’s flood of argument until they +reached the apartment. She would throw up +her career after all they had done for her, +merely in a fit of pique because they objected +to her throwing herself away. The Marchese +and Maria had not returned.</p> + +<p>“I shall not trust you,” declared Jacobelli. +“I shall guard you until they come back.”</p> + +<p>Carlota faced him suddenly, in the small +vestibule, her eyes brilliant with resentment +and pride.</p> + +<p>“I prefer to be alone, signor,” she told him. +“I think even your authority must end here in +my own home.”</p> + +<p>He stared at her in amazement, and bowed +as he stepped back from the door.</p> + +<p>“I repeat the one word which fits you, ingrate!”</p> + +<p>The door closed, and in the sudden reaction +of nervous tension Carlota sank on the low +couch, her face on her arms. It was nearly +twelve by the clock on Maria’s desk. Surely +they would come now any minute, and she +would have to confess everything before +Jacobelli had an opportunity of presenting his +version. Somehow she felt the old Marchese +would sympathize with her, he who was still +a faithful voyageur along the coasts of romance,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> +but Maria would see only the wreck of +her career and her ingratitude to Ward.</p> + +<p>The memory of him brought back his offer +to purchase the rubies. She opened the bag, +and drew them out on the velvet cushions of +the couch. Maria had called them priceless, +these glowing bits of imprisoned glory. Against +the gray brocade of the cushion, their vivid, +blood-red hue fascinated her, but only with +the thrill at their beauty. She was like Paoli +on whom they had been lavished. There was +no craving in her nature for outer ornamentation, +no lure from wealth or jewels. She touched +them now curiously, half regretfully. Ward +had said he would become their purchaser at +any time when she wished to dispose of them. +She rose with quick resolution and searched +for his telephone number in the book. The bell +rang with startling sharpness in the still room. +She raised the receiver, expecting to hear +Ames, but the suave, cheery tones of the +Marchese sounded over the wire.</p> + +<p>“Maria would have me call you up before +we went on to Casanova’s reception, to be +sure you were quite all right. You are, yes? +The headache better? Ah, that is good. We +may be late, about two, I think. You are to +rest yourself, understand.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, tell her I understand, and she is not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> +even to think of me,” Carlota exclaimed +eagerly. “It was dear of you to call me up.”</p> + +<p>She hung up after the Marchese’s laughing, +courtly rejoinder. Two whole hours before +they would return. It seemed as if Fate had +opened wide the way for her to go. She called +Ward’s number with surety. He had not yet +returned, Ishigaki informed her, but was expected +at any moment. He would give him the +message.</p> + +<p>At the same moment Georges paused before +a row of low red-brick buildings on +East Twenty-Eighth Street, towards Lexington +Avenue. They were very quiet, private-appearing +residences. Narrow, one-story porches +of iron grill-work clung to each, overhung with +scrawny, rugged vines that defied the city +soil to make them vacate. In the basement of +one was a barber shop, discreet seeming and +customerless. The second floor of another bore +a small sign, “Bulgarian Restaurant.” Each +carried over its entrance bell a slip of white +paper, pasted to the brick, “Furnished Rooms.”</p> + +<p>Here, then, Georges hesitated, not knowing +certainly which house held the object of his +quest. It was after midnight by five minutes. +The lights in the restaurant burned low. A +footfall down the street towards the subway +station made him turn. The late pedestrian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> +was young and in evening dress, with a raincoat +flapping back in the swirling autumn +wind. The air was damp and salty with the +scent of the incoming tide up the East River. +He started up the steps of the house next to +the restaurant when Georges accosted him. +Did he know where a man named Steccho +lived, Ferad Steccho?</p> + +<p>“I don’t live around here,” Ames replied. +“Wait a minute. I’ll ask my friend.”</p> + +<p>He tapped upon one of the windows opening +on the narrow iron porch, and both +heard the sound of a violin within, a queer, +soft harmony of undertones. Dmitri sat cross-legged +on his couch like a merchant in a Bagdad +bazaar, his head twisted over his violin as +though it had been the head of a girl he loved +held in the curve of his arm.</p> + +<p>On a stool beside the table was Steccho, +brewing coffee in a long-handled copper urn +he held over a brazier of charcoal. He started +up at the sound of a step on the porch, but +Dmitri calmed him.</p> + +<p>“It is only Griff,” he said, rising to open the +door. Ames stood on the threshold, his hand +on the knob. And the boy at the brazier heard +him ask where Ferad Steccho lived. Before he +could warn Dmitri, Georges had caught the +answer and was bowing before him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>“I disturb you, I fear,” he said gravely. “I +merely sought an old friend.”</p> + +<p>Steccho’s face was rigid with alarm and fear. +The skin seemed to tighten over his high, +swarthy cheekbones. His eyes were brilliant, +his lips a mere line of red in the graying tan of +his face.</p> + +<p>“I come!” he responded.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XV</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dmitri</span> laid aside his violin, his eyebrows +lifted querulously.</p> + +<p>“Now, why do you suppose that black-browed +grenadier comes to my threshold at +dead of night and scares my friend? Sit down, +Griff, sit down. You shall have such a sup of +coffee as you have never tasted before, purest +Mocha straight from Medina in a sack. The +boy was frightened, eh?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t notice his face,” Ames retorted. +“God, but I’m tired!” He stretched out full +length on the couch after throwing off both +coats. “You are absolutely right, Dmitri. Society +is the pitfall and delusion, the desert of +mirages.”</p> + +<p>“It is not a success, then, the opera? Where +is Carlota?” Dmitri talked with a cigarette +balanced unsteadily in one corner of his +mouth, and poured off the top of the coffee +deftly into small cups. “You like a dash of +rose or orange water, yes?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t care what you give me. I’d drink a +Lethe cocktail to-night,” groaned Ames. “They +took her away from me, Dmitri. She isn’t +poor or friendless or anything of that sort. It’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> +a damned lie. She’s the granddaughter of the +great Italian diva, Paoli, and Ogden Ward is +her financial backer. It reeks, lad, it reeks of +the commonplace, and the rose of romance is +a wired fraud.”</p> + +<p>“That is very good,” Dmitri responded +cheerfully. “A wired fraud peddled by the +fakir Hope on street corners to catch just such +boys as yourself. I told you all about it and +you would not listen to me. Each lover imagines +he is completely original in his unique adventure +when it is merely the same old rondel +sung over again. She is too beautiful to doubt, +but the more beautiful they are the more you +should doubt.”</p> + +<p>Ames sat up, his head bowed.</p> + +<p>“You see, the worst of it is no one will believe +I did not know who she was all the time. +She is the accredited pupil of Guido Jacobelli, +and yet she permitted me to introduce her +publicly as my pupil. Why did she ever come +down to the Square and let me make-believe +teach her?”</p> + +<p>Dmitri’s eyebrows again became expressively +active. He shook a few drops of orange water +from a tiny glass decanter into each cup of coffee, +and his next remark was apparently a diversion.</p> + +<p>“Have you tried to pluck this Rose of +Romance?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>“Oh, she knows I love her, of course. You +don’t have to tell those things outright when +you are persons like Carlota and myself.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, to be sure, you sing it to each other; +you play it in divine harmonies on the piano. +I forget.”</p> + +<p>“Thank God, that is all.”</p> + +<p>“Then you have not let her carry away +your heart and offer of marriage in her little +gold bonbon case?”</p> + +<p>Ames shook his head miserably. “No one +will ever believe I did not know who she +was,” he repeated. “She merely told me that +her people, her own people, were all dead +back in Italy. Of course I thought she just +came to me from some neighborhood around +the quarter until you warned me where she +really lived.”</p> + +<p>“My boy,” Dmitri comforted him, “you +love the indefinite. It would have dispelled +the illusion to have trailed her into the bosom +of her family. A family is so commonplace.”</p> + +<p>“But she always dressed simply.”</p> + +<p>“Simply? You do not recognize the art of +the modiste and tailor. I have myself seen her +wearing a coat or gown that must have cost all +out of reason to her apparent circumstances, +but I said nothing to dispel your happiness. +There was also her voice, her hand, her very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> +manner. Griff, you were blind not to see and +know you entertained an angel unawares.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose she thought she was helping me, +singing ‘Fiametta’ to-night, and instead, it +will ruin my whole career. They will call it an +unthinkable and gigantic piece of unpardonable +impudence by the time Jacobelli finishes +with me.”</p> + +<p>“Stop thinking of yourself all the time. +What of her?” warned Dmitri gently. “She +did not want to go to Belvoir. She did not +want ever even to sing in public, and you +made her do it for you, you renegade. You +get back to your own case. Do you not think +she is suffering too?”</p> + +<p>“If I thought she were, I’d be the happiest +man alive,” Ames declared fervently. “If I +thought she really cares anything for me, that +this wouldn’t end everything, I mean.”</p> + +<p>“You mean, if she is the girl you believe her +to be, she will not give you up?” Dmitri blew +wavery, violet ovals into the air and sighed. +“I do not envy you people who eternally seek +to win your ideal, to bring it to earth, and +make it domesticated, so to speak. Possibly +this is the greatest thing that could have happened +to either of you. You will be like the +most wonderful lovers in the world—Dante +and Beatrice. To me they are the greatest of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> +all because they are divinely ideal. My dear +boy, he had a wife and five children, yet he +beheld her at the bridge over the Arno once, +only once, in the crimson gown, and he immortalized +her with his ideal love. Paolo possessed +Francesca’s avowal, Abelard had his +memories in his cell, yet Dante, in his poverty +of earthly happiness attained the empyrean +following his dream.”</p> + +<p>“I know. They’ll tell her all that sort of +thing, too. You people who make a fetish of +the immaterial, who believe that realization +kills, amuse me.”</p> + +<p>“Amusement is the privilege of youth,” +Dmitri answered. “What you do not wish to +understand or enjoy, you laugh away, but I tell +you, your love, if realized, will kill the genius +of you both, and you will find yourselves with +clipped wings, domesticated wild swans ever +yearning after the blue lanes of flight.”</p> + +<p>“Every philosopher loves the sound of his +own voice better than that of any woman,” +said Ames.</p> + +<p>Dmitri chuckled. “That is possible, quite +possible, my friend. I wish I might call myself +a philosopher, but I am a poor marksman. +Philosophers are men who shoot mental shafts +at the bull’s-eye of truth. I have never hit the +inner circle myself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>Ames drank his coffee thirstily and reached +his cup for more. “Don’t preach at me, +Dmitri,” he said bitterly. “I have come to +you for straight advice, not a lot of axioms. +Tell me what to do. She has gone away with +Ward and Jacobelli. They will keep her from +me.”</p> + +<p>“Wait patiently with confidence,” Dmitri +told him. “You will hear from her. Women are +that way. There is some divine sixth sense +that tells them of the beloved’s sufferings. +Stay here with me to-night.”</p> + +<p>Ames refused. The coffee had rested and +stimulated him. He merely wanted companionship +and the talk with one who believed in his +success. Dmitri’s optimism restored his own +confidence in himself. He would walk on down +to the Square, he said, and wait there for +some word from Carlota.</p> + +<p>“What a pity you can’t sit down in this +mood and improvise,” Dmitri said regretfully. +“This way you will only walk it off, when if +you could but express it in music—ah, my +friend, what we owe to the mad loves and +erratic moods of genius. I drink to its suffering.”</p> + +<p>He accompanied Ames to the door and +waved his hand in comradely fashion to him, +watching until he had turned the corner of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> +Madison Avenue. Then, with a quick sigh of +relief, he ran his fingers through his hair and +crossed the balcony to see if there was a light +in Steccho’s window next door. It was dark, +but as his hand touched the knob it came in +contact with a letter which had been stuck in +the door. He went back to his own quarters +slowly, and relighted the brazier to make fresh +coffee. The letter lay on the black walnut +stand where he dropped it. It had been mailed +in New York, the outer envelope attested, +but when he examined it closely he was certain +there was a second envelope inside. It was so +that his own mail came to him, sent on through +secret channels from Sofia. He mused speculatively +on the news it might contain for the +boy, Steccho. He would surely return to tell +him what the midnight visitor had wanted of +him. Possibly this letter had been a forerunner +of the visit. News from the mother and little +sister Maryna, no doubt. He lifted his head +listeningly for a footfall along the silent street, +but none came. And he leaned over the charcoal +blaze as the moments passed, with a +brooding look that was the very expectancy of +fear.</p> + +<p>Through the wooded drives of the north end +of the Park Jurka’s car proceeded slowly. On +the seat facing the Count, Steccho huddled.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> +It was chilly in the early morning, and he was +dressed scantily. The masterfulness of the +other stole his vitality from him. He felt cowed +and driven against his will. As they passed the +penumbra of an arc light he would glance up +at the handsome, easy-mannered figure opposite, +his eyes filled with livid hatred.</p> + +<p>“You have slipped a cog somewhere, I do +not know just where yet, but it will come to +me,” Jurka said. “You have been following +the girl for a month and you tell me you do +not know where the jewels are. Where were +you last night when she left the house wearing +them?”</p> + +<p>“I had watched all day,” Steccho told him +excitedly. “I was in Vorga’s tobacco store on +the corner in the afternoon. You can see the +entrance from his window. She could not have +passed out without my having seen her.”</p> + +<p>“You lie! You were with Dmitri Kavec. He +is a known spy of the Internationals. Did you +meet him in Sofia?”</p> + +<p>Steccho closed his lips stubbornly. Dmitri +was his friend. The car sped through a curving +roadway round the base of a rocky precipice +surmounted by an old blockhouse. In the +darkness the locality lost all semblance of city +scenery and might have been in the mountain +fastnesses of Bulgaria. Jurka leaned forward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> +with careless interest, and took note of their +surroundings. “It is like the road to Monastir,” +he said, half to himself. Steccho’s eyes stared +at him through the gloom of the car’s interior +like those of some wild animal held in leash. +His mother had named it “The Trail of Tears,” +that road from Monastir, where the weak and +young had fled in the great retreat, and had +been trampled to death, or had lingered for +the slower fate from starvation. He himself +had seen the babies, the young girls, the old +people—and the memory was a veritable +glut of butchery. Yet this Count smiled as he +mentioned it as though it had been some tryst +with pleasure which he had kept along that +road from Monastir. And while the boy’s +thoughts leaped from one avenging plan to +another, the Count continued:</p> + +<p>“I think you lie, Steccho. Perhaps you have +lied to me from the beginning. Perhaps, like +Dmitri, you are a Czech spy. Do you know +why he is here in America?”</p> + +<p>“I know nothing about him,” Steccho asserted, +with a touch of bravado. “We were +friends in Sofia. Both students at the University. +I did not even know he was a spy. I +had hoped he could give me news of my +people.”</p> + +<p>Jurka touched the bell and the car stopped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> +short under the overhanging shadow of autumn +foliage, and as the faint light from an arc +lamp up the road reached the interior, Steccho +saw the round bore of a revolver facing him, +held steadily and easily in Jurka’s hand as it +rested on his knee.</p> + +<p>“I could kill you now and have your body +thrown in the bushes yonder. It would be one +way out. When I saved your life you gave in +return certain assurances of faithful service.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but you promised me you would provide +safety for my mother and sister,” Steccho +broke in eagerly. “You hear from them, yes? +I hear they have killed all the girls two years +ago, cut their throats, thrown their bodies in +wells, that they took them up to the mountains +for the soldiers. Was Maryna among +those, excellenza?”</p> + +<p>“I have given you my word for her safety,” +responded Jurka. “The war is past. You +brood too much over fancied terrors. Listen +to reality. This is what you may fear. If you +do not procure the jewels from this girl to-night, +I will have your throat wrung for you +like a dead fowl. We save bullets for men, not +cowards.”</p> + +<p>“And after I get them, we go back, excellenza?” +There was almost a whine in the +query. The boy shrank back in the corner of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> +the car. His cigarette had gone out. His face +looked narrow and pinched in the darkness. +“You will see that I go back to Rigl?”</p> + +<p>“Rich for life,” Jurka assured him languidly. +“You will be able to buy the yellow +castle, if you fancy it, and many cattle and +sheep. The queen is not one to forget such +services, my Steccho, nor I. When I meet her +in Switzerland and give her the jewels, I will +tell her of you.”</p> + +<p>The muscles of Steccho’s face relaxed. After +all, he was a fool to doubt. It was all quite simple. +He would get the jewels. There would be +the journey back as they had come, Georges as +the Count’s courier, he as groom, caring for +the two riding-horses, Vriki and Etelka. Then +the heaped-up honors from the exiled queen +herself, and, yes, the yellow castle if the little +tired mother and Maryna still fancied it.</p> + +<p>The Count spoke to Georges through the +tube. “Drive to the east entrance nearest +Sixty-Fourth Street,” he ordered. “Stop inside +the Park.”</p> + +<p>He did not speak again until they came to +the entrance. As Steccho swung down to the +pavement, he nodded to him with debonair, +care-free grace. The car turned down Fifth +Avenue and Steccho paused at the corner to +catch the last glimpse of it. Jurka had hummed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> +a few bars from a favorite waltz back in Sofia. +The tune touched the chords of memory and +home longing as nothing else had done. It was +a waltz of the people played often at the little +village dances where he had met Katinka. As +he walked east on Fifty-Ninth Street he remembered +her as he had seen her kneeling in +church, bathed in the long glow of purple light +that flowed through the stained-glass aureole +of Saint Genevieve. Always as he had followed +Carlota from the very first she had reminded +him of his dead sweetheart. Over and +over, when he had been tempted to betray her +visits to Ames’s studio, the words had been +checked on his lips as he met Jurka’s eyes and +remembered the day his excellenza’s soldiery +had carried the body of the girl from his quarters +above the inn.</p> + +<p>Twice before he reached the Saint Germain +he stopped dead short, and looked back. But +the lure of the yellow castle drew him forward, +and he finally faced the east, eager for +the night’s work.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVI</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ward</span> pushed his chair back from the table, +lighting a cigarette from the match Ishigaki +held towards him.</p> + +<p>“Miss Trelango’s call came about half an +hour ago?”</p> + +<p>“At five minutes past twelve.” The Jap gave +the time with exactness. Ward’s face was inscrutable.</p> + +<p>“Get the car around. I shall want only you +with me, tell Daniels.”</p> + +<p>As Ishigaki left the room he stood smoking, +a half smile on his lips. In all probability to-night +he would secure the Zarathustra ruby and +its attendant collection. Jurka, the Bulgarian +he had met at the club, had been after them, +too, he remembered. He had been at the Nevins +fête and had seen them. Palmieri had ascertained +that the collection had been declared +by Maria Roma as the personal property of +Carlota Trelango, a minor non-resident alien. +This much his own agent had found out. What +Jurka knew, he had no idea, or his object in +seeking the rubies. Was he, too, infatuated +with the girl herself, and used the jewels +merely as a blind to his own pursuit of her?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>He drew three opals from his pocket and +tossed them like dice before him on the polished +surface of the table. They were perfectly +matched and had come from the lacquered +cabinet of the old empress whose life-span had +bridged the gulf from the rice-fields along the +Yang-tse to the peacock throne at Pekin. He +gazed down at their changing luster musingly. +Carlota had been in her most alluring mood +when he had spoken with her on the telephone +after Ishigaki had delivered her message. +Spirited, combative, aloof, as he liked her best. +The temple chimes in a corner recess sounded +the half-hour. She had said she was alone. Always, +in his experience, every woman had her +price. As he swept the opals up in his hand at +the Jap’s low voice, he knew there could be no +compromise now. She had dallied along the +highway of romance and had found the love of +youth awaiting her. Remembering the look of +perfect understanding and faith between her +and Ames as she had passed by him on the +arm of Jacobelli, Ward felt a conscienceless +determination to compel her to take his terms +that night. She could do without the Paoli +gems. Possibly, it might be a rather suitable +tribute, later at her début, for him to present +her with the necklace. He glanced into the tall +Florentine mirror as he folded his scarf beneath<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> +his cloak, and followed Ishigaki to the +car at the curb. The boy had only youth and +ambition as assets after all.</p> + +<p>In her apartment Carlota had deliberately +set the stage for his reception. Slipping off her +dressing-robe, she clad herself in a straight-cut +evening gown of chiffon velvet, ranging in +color from palest mauve to deepest rose, with +long swaying sleeves of silver metal cloth. Her +face was paler than usual, her eyes brilliant as +she switched off the lights in the apartment, +leaving only the one in the hall and a spray of +rose globes beneath a silken shade at the head +of the couch.</p> + +<p>Kneeling before the gas-logs, she opened the +leather bag to look alone for the last time +on the rubies. Behind her a window opened +widely to the keen night air. Once she raised +her head, startled at a sound that seemed to +come from the balconied fire escape. The wind +blew the curtains toward her. It was dark outside. +The city was sinking into a few hours of +sleep before the rattle of daybreak noises. As +she rose to look out of the window, the outer +bell rang lightly. Standing flat against the +stone wall of the building, not half a yard from +the room, Steccho checked his leap, listening. +If he were discovered now, they would snare +him, no matter what he told. Who would believe,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> +unless perhaps the girl herself out of the +grace that was in all women, that he had not +come there to-night to rob her, but to warn +her, to defraud Jurka—not of the jewels, but +of the slender, young purity of this child +woman who had eyes like Katinka. If he could +save her, could keep her for the boy who loved +her, Dmitri’s friend in the Square, then perhaps +in some great, merciful way the knowledge +of it would come to that unseen Power +for good which Dmitri held still ruled the +world of men and women in spite of the sea of +crimson. Perhaps it might be they would save +his mother and Maryna, these unseen forces, +without his bargaining away his soul and life +with a man like Jurka.</p> + +<p>“You are still alone?” Ward’s eyes followed +the lines of her figure as she moved away from +him. The changing silver and rose of her gown +reminded him of the opals.</p> + +<p>“Maria has gone with the Marchese to +Casanova’s reception. They telephoned they +would be back about two. We have not very +much time, you see.” She drew the jewels from +the bag and laid them before him on the round +inlaid table at the head of the couch. The rose +light shone on their beauty almost hungrily, +catching the varying gleams from the deep red +hearts of the rubies. “They are all there, all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> +that I wore to-night, the tiara, the necklace, +and the girdle. They are worth enough quite to +pay you back for all you have given me, are +they not?”</p> + +<p>He looked at them quickly, and turned back +to her as she stood beside the table.</p> + +<p>“I will give you my check for two hundred +and fifty thousand. The Zarathustra alone is +worth half of that. You would find it out if I +cheated you, and hate me afterwards. I, too, +hate a cheat.”</p> + +<p>Something in his words and tone made her +motionless, chilled and tense. She met his eyes +challengingly.</p> + +<p>“You mean that I am not keeping my bargain, +Mr. Ward. But it was not a fair one that +you made. You asked the impossible.”</p> + +<p>“That you would not get into any affairs +until you had made your success.” He cut her +short sharply. “I was right. To-night proved +it. Left to yourself you have made yourself a +laughing-stock. You ruined your own début +for the sake of this fellow Ames, and smashed +his career by branding him an impostor.”</p> + +<p>“I do not believe it. Count D’Istria—you +yourself heard him when he spoke to me—he +would not have recognized me and praised the +opera if—if I had ruined him—Griffeth. You +cannot kill art like that, not when it is real.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>“You have the patter of his crowd at your +tongue’s end,” sneered Ward. “You would +have nothing to do with me when I offered you +my love that night at dinner. You were insulted +and fiery as some menaced nun, yet you +meet this Ames in his studio secretly and carry +on an affair with him brazenly, merely because +you think you love him. Do you believe that +love is its own law, then?”</p> + +<p>And Carlota, thinking only of the old rose-tinted +wall that bounded the domain of her +dreams, closed her eyes and smiled.</p> + +<p>“It is the highest law,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“So?” His arms closed about her like a vise +as he crushed her to him. “I take you at your +word. Do you think that I, Ogden Ward, +would be such a damned fool as to let another +man take you or anything else that I wanted +away from me? Did you think you could throw +me a few jewels like bones to a dog, and call +our deal off? I want those rubies because they +are like you. They are all fire and blood and +passion, and I’ll have you both.”</p> + +<p>He stifled the scream on her lips with one +hand, lifting her on one arm easily while she +fought like a captured wild animal. The table +overturned behind her, and the jewels slipped +to the rug as the electrolier broke its rose +globes over them. The room was in darkness as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> +he felt her suddenly relax limply in his embrace. +Her hands and lips were cold, yet he +told himself he had not hurt her badly, merely +the pressure on her mouth to keep back the +alarm. As he laid her on the couch Steccho’s +curved Turkish blade caught him under the +left shoulder blade, and he rolled backward, +reaching blindly into the darkness as he fell.</p> + +<p>The boy waited a few moments, ready for +another thrust, but there was utter silence in +the room, and he drew a deep soft breath of +relief. Kneeling, he gathered up the jewels +carefully, without haste or dread, placing them +in his inner coat pockets, the necklace with its +priceless pendant next to his body where it +was safest, the tiara curving under the belt at +his wait, the girdle looped like a pet serpent +in his pocket. Something else had fallen where +the firelight caught its sparkle. He picked up +one of the old empress’s opals and smiled over +its perfect beauty. This might please Maryna.</p> + +<p>Before he passed back out of the window, he +bent over Carlota. She lay as if sleeping, with +spent, broken breathing. Ah, he would have +taken her as a wolf, even as Jurka himself, this +man who lay at her feet, but not now, not after +the stroke he had learned in Rigl. She was safe, +quite safe to leave alone with him. He lighted +a cigarette calmly, buttoned his raincoat close<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> +around his throat, and swung out of the window +and down the fire escape.</p> + +<p>Those who place faith in the symbols and +cabals of coincidence might have traced a triangle +at that moment with Steccho at one +point, Dmitri’s room the apex, and the other +the unlighted studio where Griffeth sat by the +open window, staring out at the Square. The +Bulgarian felt oddly exhilarated now that he +had made his get-away safely. He paused at +Fifty-Ninth Street and Madison Avenue, like +a racer, sure of his victory, resting at the first +lap.</p> + +<p>It had been strange, fate forcing the possession +of the rubies upon him. He was fatalist +enough to accept. And it would be better for +the girl Carlota. They would find her in time. +Ward had terrified her, but she was unhurt, he +felt certain, except for the marks on her throat. +He looked back over the way he had come. +There was no sign of alarm yet, no shrill blowing +of police whistles, nothing but the customary +flow of crosstown traffic at that hour. He +bought an early paper, and took a car bound +downtown. The jewels themselves reminded +him, as he touched them in his pockets, that he +had not failed when the hour of fate had struck +for him. He bore the wealth of a rajah on his +body, and the knowledge gave him a suppressed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> +braggadocio as if he had picked up +life’s challenge and had won his first prize in +the lists of opportunity. If only the girl, as she +lay there, had not looked like Katinka, more +like her than ever with the pallor and look of +pain on her face. He shook off the sentiment +and focused his attention on Jurka.</p> + +<p>He had given him until morning. Good; +then he should have the jewels three hours before +dawn. Georges’s black eyes would show +smouldering fires of envy when he, Ferad +Steccho, carelessly poured forth the missing +rubies from his pockets, the rubies of the +queen, as if they had been pebbles. Doubtless +another night, and they would all be on their +way back. He shut his eyes, half imagining the +lurch of the car was the first roll of the ship as +it touched the deep sea, and the far-off city +noises were the distant surge of ocean waves.</p> + +<p>True, there would be an outcry when they +found the body of Ward, but there was no one +to tell who had stabbed him. The girl had been +unconscious. His eyes narrowed suddenly. +Would they, then, possibly accuse her? Would +Ward, if by any chance the blow had not +killed him, dare to revenge himself on her by +swearing that she had stabbed him?</p> + +<p>As the car reached Thirty-Fourth Street he +shook off the depression and made direct for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> +the Dupont, confident of his welcome. There +was no response, he was told at the desk. He +demanded that they call the Count’s private +room. It was impossible, the clerk told him. +Count Jurka’s orders were he was not to be +disturbed. Would he send up a card with a +message? He shrugged his shoulders, and +wrote rapidly in Bulgarian:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>They will not let me up to you. Send Georges at +once. I fancy the yellow castle, excellenza.</p> +</div> + +<p>The triangle of coincidence had become an +isosceles. He walked over to Lexington Avenue, +and walked down to Twenty-Eighth +Street, taking his time, his usual surliness +settling in a fog of resentment over his mood +of happiness. So he must wait, wait while the +Count had his unbroken rest, while the workers, +the doers, waited on the whims of such as +he like dogs on doormats. Well, they might +come to him now, to him, Steccho, if they +wanted the jewels. He would go to Dmitri’s +room and stretch out by the fire and sleep the +hours before daylight. He had not touched +food since the previous day, nothing but black +coffee and cigarettes. The plan struck him with +pleasure, as a sort of revenge on Jurka. He +would not tell Dmitri what he had done; +merely sit and chat with him to prove he did +not do the bidding of the Count.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>When he mounted the steps of the red-brick +house with the iron railing around its +balcony, there came the low sound of violin-playing +from within. Dmitri then was still +awake. His grate was ablaze with a good fire of +boxwood and charcoal. His coffee waited the +whim of his desire, over the unlighted brazier. +Meanwhile, he said hello, as he expressed it, to +his consort, “Madame Harmony.”</p> + +<p>“Behold, she never deserts me,” he would +say to Ames. “She is the most patient yet alluring +of mistresses, my madame. And when I +caress her, ah, what she tells to me!”</p> + +<p>There was no pathos in his music to-night. +A Czech folk-dance spun from his fingers in +curling, whirling, leaping strains of melody +like some strange, intangible confetti of vibration +expressed in notes. The lure of it held the +boy and he waited in the doorway, his dark +eyes filled with a passion of home yearning. So +often he had danced with her, Katinka, to that +same music. At the instant some one on another +street blew a car whistle, and he slammed +shut the door, locking it with shaking fingers.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVII</h2> +</div> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Now</span> what?” demanded Dmitri cheerily. +“You look as stark as a dead fish, my friend. +Have some wine.”</p> + +<p>Steccho took the full glass gratefully, +drained it, his head thrown far back, and +wiped his lips with a sweep of his hand.</p> + +<p>“I thought it was the police,” he said unsteadily.</p> + +<p>Dmitri lit the fire in the brazier before he +spoke. His eyes were filled with brooding solicitude +when he looked back at the boy. Steccho’s +whole posture showed more than mere exhaustion. +There were dejection and fear in the +slouch of his body as he sat forward on the +edge of the couch, his fingers crumpled in his +hair.</p> + +<p>“You have done something to-night?”</p> + +<p>The boy nodded.</p> + +<p>Dmitri measured powdered Arabian coffee +into the copper pot carefully.</p> + +<p>“It is a pitiful penalty of wrongdoing,” he +said compassionately, “the little ghosts of fear +one must forever entertain. You have been +followed here?”</p> + +<p>“I am not afraid. I am hungry.” A shudder<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> +like a chill shook his narrow, stooped shoulders. +Dmitri eyed him anxiously. “Let us go +around to Barouki, some place where it is +quiet and we can talk.”</p> + +<p>“None better than here. Lay off your coat +and lie down. I will have you such a meal in +twenty minutes as you have not tasted in +months, not since you left home. I have broth, +wine, and lamb to broil; grapes and bread and +coffee.” He set a pot of broth over the blaze, +brought out lamb from the cupboard with a +small, smooth board to cut it on, and sat cross-legged +on the floor before the brazier while he +cut the meat into slices and skewered it with +slices of raw onion between. “I am no wanderer +at heart, you see. I like my own hearth-fire +even if it is merely a charcoal blaze like +this. I prefer to cook my own meals and know +what I feed upon. Drink that broth.”</p> + +<p>Steccho obeyed in moody silence. The reaction +had set in after his rebuff at the Dupont. +He drank the broth in deep swallows. The +peace and genial atmosphere of the room had +begun to seep through his consciousness as it +always did. He felt that here he might lie and +sleep for hours, until the fear that dogged his +heels should have lost the scent. He wondered +if the blade had reached the heart. He had +dropped without a cry, the man who desired<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> +both rubies and her who was more precious +than rubies. If it had not killed him, then he +would waken and accuse—whom would he +accuse? He had seen no assailant in the darkness. +Would he, perhaps, say that Carlota had +stabbed him, would he dare when he knew she +had been unconscious in his arms? Besides, +they would discover the rubies were gone; that +would prove she was innocent, that another +had dealt the blow and had taken them. He +yawned exhaustedly.</p> + +<p>“You could hide me here, if it had to be, +yes?”</p> + +<p>“Doubtless.” Dmitri set a savory mess of +browned lamb on the black oak table and +poured boiled rice into the broth to simmer. +“I could hide you, but you would have to tell +me why you were hiding. In these days we +must guard our friends against their own impulses. +Whom have you killed, Ferad?”</p> + +<p>The Bulgarian stretched out his palms excitedly.</p> + +<p>“And what is that, the death-stroke, nowadays? +Life is the cheapest thing in the world.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri poured wine into two tall metal +drinking-cups. From the Metropolitan Tower +came the strokes of two. He served the rice +in silence, reserving comment, waiting for the +confidence of the other. And suddenly Steccho<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> +rose from the table. He had eaten with a ravening +hunger; now his old air of sullen bravado +returned. He turned pocket after pocket inside +out, emptying the jewels on the table before +Dmitri as if he had been a gamin rolling marbles. +Dmitri lifted his brows in relief and +amusement as he looked at them, rubies and +diamonds, rubies and pearls, set in old silver +and gold.</p> + +<p>“So, you play with these, my friend,” he +smiled. “I had thought you were grown to a +man’s desire. These are the devil’s toys to +catch the tinkling fancy of women and girls. +Did you need money? I would have given you +all I had.”</p> + +<p>Steccho laughed, his heavy black hair rumpled +over his forehead. He shook his head impatiently. +After his long fast, the wine was +stirring his brain to resentment against Jurka.</p> + +<p>“I bring them to you that you may choose +for me,” he said. “This is why I am here. They +are the missing crown jewels, the rubies of the +queen.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri stared at him incredulously. Yet the +gems lay there before him. The boy spoke the +truth. These were imperial in their beauty and +value. He lifted the pendant, gazing intently +at the Zarathustra ruby, the second largest in +the world.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>“The queen?” he repeated incredulously. +“She is in Switzerland. She sent you here?”</p> + +<p>“Not I.” Steccho laughed in derision, tightening +his belt. “I am Ferad Steccho, a dog to +be kicked and denied, you understand. The +queen will thank Count Jurka, but I—I, +Steccho, am the one who got the jewels for her, +and it is you, my Dmitri, who will decide +whether we ever give these to the queen who +waits for them. That is why I come to you, not +to hide me, but to tell me what to do.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri’s thoughts centered on the name he +had spoken, Jurka. The former court chamberlain, +the ex-attaché who had been given the +favor and confidence of the queen herself in the +cataclysm of fate that had swept her throne +from under her, the suave, faithful, blond +Jurka. He watched the dark, eager face of the +boy, touched with vivid high lights along point +of chin, cheek, and nose by the firelight in the +open grate.</p> + +<p>“Do you think for one moment a man like +Jurka would undertake this mission out of any +loyalty or desire to assist a queen in exile unless—I +did not think you would help to +feather the nest of such a bird as Jurka.”</p> + +<p>He checked himself abruptly. Steccho struck +his clenched fists upon the table between them, +the jewels unheeded as he poured out his words.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>“I did not take them for him or for the +queen. It was the price he demanded of me for +the safety of my mother and sister.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri glanced to the mantel where the letter +lay. He had forgotten it in the surprise of +Steccho’s coming, but now he waited to hear +him out before he gave it to him.</p> + +<p>“Jurka sent for me in Sofia. He was working +with the relief committee there, a mask to hide +behind merely. He remains an agent of the +royalists. He told me these were part of the +crown jewels. They had been stolen years ago +by some Italian woman loved by the crown +prince. He said they had traced them here to +New York. What do I care for them?” He +pushed the rubies from him resentfully. “I +tell you they are unlucky. The rubies are for +blood, the pearls for tears, always I hear my +mother tell that. Here they were worn by an +innocent girl—”</p> + +<p>He stopped. Would he tell Dmitri all the +truth, of the girl Carlota, whom his friend had +loved, of her peril, and why he had taken the +jewels from the keeping of the man who jeered +at love?</p> + +<p>“How did you first meet Jurka? How did he +know these were here? Whom have you killed +to get them for him?”</p> + +<p>Dmitri strove to speak calmly. Behind the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> +boy’s story lay some conspiracy of Jurka’s, another +undercurrent to reckon with in the great +crimson tidal wave.</p> + +<p>“I was suspected of being a revolutionist and +ordered shot.” Steccho spoke jerkily, between +his teeth, his head back as he smoked. “My +father was head gamekeeper, before the war, +on the Count’s estate north of Rigl where our +home was. You know the place? On the mountain +road from Moritza there is a castle of yellow +rock standing high above the town.” He +drew long inhaled puffs from his cigarette. The +castle in the sun glow! The strange, numb, unsteadiness +swept over him again as it had back +there on the fire escape when he had watched +the man seize Carlota. Lust and youth, even +as Jurka had ravished the sweetness and +laughter and pure joyousness of Katinka.</p> + +<p>Dmitri and the room slipped out of his vision, +submerged in a gray ocean of restfulness +beyond which gleamed the castle of his dreams. +How it had stood as an eternal symbol to his +boyhood of the pomp and majesty of kings! +Then had come the schooling at Sofia, and +the smouldering fires of revolution that crept +through the dry rotting underbrush and mould +of oppression, unnoted by those who saw only +the bravery of waving green boughs in the sunlight.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>He had met Dmitri Kavec there, a teacher +of political economy and sociology, tutoring +younger men to pay his way, writing for certain +Continental papers, talking always of the +day when freedom should dawn. He was a +Czech, with a mingling of Romany blood in his +veins. It showed in his mastery of the violin, in +his dark skin, not swarthy like Steccho’s, but +clear and pale as yellow wine with the underlay +of red. The boy’s eyes were furtive, restless, +Dmitri’s like those of some captive eagle +that sits motionless, watching passing crowds, +alert and fearless. He, Steccho, had felt proud +when he had been asked to join the group of +men who assembled nightly in Dmitri’s quarters +above the old coffee-house in the lower +square. He had sat and listened to them, learning +much of the underground wiring of secret +diplomacy, much of the patience of the thinkers +and workers.</p> + +<p>Then had come dissension and a break in the +university club ranks. Dmitri was called a +dreamer, one of those who believed the end +might be reached by brotherhood and teaching +of the people. Even Steccho had chafed at such +doctrine. Rather he liked the fighting, the carrying +of blazing flambeaux in the race, the song +of the torch, as Dmitri called their propaganda. +After the outbreak of war he had become a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> +spy for the Internationals. It had ended with +that winter day when the royalist troops had +caught him hiding in Rigl. A troop occupied +the town on its way up to the mountain passes +above Moritza. Personages of importance sat +in conference with Jurka in the old smoke-stained +room at the inn, and Steccho had +found a way of listening, half-wedged down +the side flue of an old rock chimney.</p> + +<p>He had overheard much, gossip mostly from +Jurka, of the vacillating, ambitious king who +craved the title of Czar, of his wife, the sour-visaged +queen, whom he had never loved, the +stool pigeon of William. They had chatted of +these, speculating on who would head the +royalist cause if some day Ferdinand chanced +to oversleep, found like his old friend Abdul +Hamid with a five-inch blade parting his ribs.</p> + +<p>Steccho had listened eagerly. There was a +trickle of truth here and there through the +talk. They placed more confidence in Sophia +than in the king. The soldiers were grumbling +for back pay. Some officers had been shot in +the back by their own men. They had been +caught fraternizing with the enemy, exchanging +food and tobacco under the very noses of +the nobles. Stores of supplies for the officers’ +mess had been broken open and scattered to +the wounded by their comrades.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>Straws in the wind, Jurka said, his back to +the fireplace, but signs to the wise. The people +wearied of oppression. They must be taught to +dance to a new tune. With victory Bulgaria +would swallow up her enemies, she would sit +like a brooding lioness, her cubs about her, +renegade Greece, recreant Roumania, Servia +crawling, the Slovacs whipped to heel. And +eager to hear more, Steccho had leaned like a +fool too far forward to catch the low-spoken +words, and a rumble of loosened bricks had +startled the soldiers into action.</p> + +<p>He had been forced down by a dozen pricking, +reaching sword-points as if he had been a +porcupine in a hole, and had been condemned +to be shot at once against the stable wall in the +courtyard below.</p> + +<p>He had heard the scream of his mother as +the old women held her back, and had tried to +reach her. The soldiers had beaten and kicked +him as he lay in the snow, and Maryna, the +little sister, had burst through the line, and by +some miracle of grace he had been granted his +life at her plea. Jurka had said with grave gallantry, +as he smoothed back her heavy silken +flaxen hair, that Saint Ginevra herself had +surely intervened in his behalf.</p> + +<p>“So you became a royalist, a serf—rather +than join the gray marchers to the shades?”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> +Dmitri smiled at the boy. “Better to have remained +up the chimney and wakened singing +in a chorus of victory. See how your hand +shakes. You have bad nerves, my boy. You +rush down here in a fit of pique like an emotional +girl because Jurka desires to sleep and +not be disturbed. If he refused to see you to-morrow, +you might throw the playthings into +the river and become revolutionist again. That +way lies madness.”</p> + +<p>Steccho picked up the necklace, staring at +the rubies with dreamy eyes. The warmth of +the fire and the good meal with wine filled him +with a glow of relaxed nerves and a sense of +well-being and safety.</p> + +<p>“I am no revolutionist. I hate to kill. I hate +strife and turmoil and change. Yet I hate +Jurka, too, and his kind. I was his bondman +because he swore to protect my mother and +Maryna. Do you know what they did after +the uprising in Poltenza, twelve miles from +us? They shot the villagers down against the +gray wall of the market-place, two hundred of +them, and the girls were given first to the officers, +then to the soldiery, and we found their +bodies piled in the wells, a trick from the +Turks. It serves two purposes. We have been +patient, Dmitri. See, I ask you. Shall we sell +these and give the money to those who work<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> +for freedom? How much could I get for them, +two hundred thousand, three, five?”</p> + +<p>“More,” replied Dmitri gently, “and your +throat slit. Listen, my boy. Revolution is a +mad dog. Who will thrust a lighted torch into +the hands of a maniac or idiot? I do not think +the hour has struck when men are content +with the creed of violence. They weary of +bloodshed. They ask, Is this all, bodies, bodies, +more bodies until the whole horizon is filled +with them, and one may not find the sky?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, you talk,” Steccho muttered drowsily. +“Jurka says you are a spy of the Internationals.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri smiled, slowly stirring the charcoal +embers beneath the brazier into a glow.</p> + +<p>“I am no spy,” he said. “I am a watcher on +the outer walls, my Ferad. I am an opportunist, +not aristocrat nor socialist nor even +democrat. I do not like a beaten path, but I +love the ideals of tradition. I love opportunity. +That is why America fascinates me. Life is a +game, and all games lose their zest if one plays +with a cheat, he who ignores the rules and sets +up his own. One objects to the stacked deck +and loaded dice. Also, each man should have +a chance to deal. The trouble with your Jurkas, +your aristocrat, he deals all the hands and +gives himself the best. The trouble with you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> +revolutionists, you would deal everybody the +same kind of a hand, and that makes the game +stupid and uninteresting. There is no law of +chance, no thrill to your game. You fatalists +believe that man deals, but Fate shuffles the +cards. Have more to eat.”</p> + +<p>“No one can play a fair game with such as +Jurka.”</p> + +<p>Steccho ignored the proffered food, his face +on his hands.</p> + +<p>“Then use his own tricks against him. Look +you, my friend, the gambling instinct is the +keenest in all men, for we have learned that, +after all, life is a great gamble. The only thing +you are sure of is that you are sure of nothing. +If I took up this sport, this gambling with +human lives, I would do so for the pure thrill +of it. I like the plunger, the good loser always. +But your Jurka type, he who plays the game +doggedly, who merely wants something for +nothing, you will find him a bad loser. He +plays to win only; the other type of man plays +for the thrill of achievement. Your anarchist, +too, he takes a hand. If he loses, he will say +the game is crooked, and demand a new deal. +If he wins, he plays safe and stops, taking all +the winnings. He is like your aristocrat, after +all; he will amuse himself with solitaire forever +if you give him the chance.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>Steccho rose moodily, walking up and down +the floor.</p> + +<p>“You have stolen to please the lust of +empire,” Dmitri resumed, smoking leisurely. +“You are like the man who is afraid to play +the game, to take a chance himself, so he turns +the wheel for others. If he fares well from the +man who wins, he likes him; if not, then he is +for the man who loses. He listens to what this +man says, Let us break up this house and do +away with gambling forever. We will all play +safe, then, eh? But it is not possible, Ferad. All +philosophy fails to reconcile human nature. +We are all gamblers. The trouble is that your +Jurkas give the game a bad odor, and then the +losers cry out that the whole game is not worth +while. We are too selfish. We forget that we +all lay up riches but for the heirs of to-morrow. +I would make the way easy. I would strive to +clear away the barriers that all might reach +the goal of opportunity. Yet I would not hobble +the swift that the slow may keep pace with +them. Will you sleep here to-night?” He laid +his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Do not +think me unsympathetic. It is dangerous to play +the game here, and the weak go under. There +are some that cheat. I think Jurka is a cheat. +We did not fight to make the world safe; that +would be a bore. We fought to make it livable.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>“I do not care for anything but to see my +mother and sister again,” said Steccho.</p> + +<p>Dmitri’s brow cleared. “Ah, and I am forgetting +all the good news for you!” he cried, +seizing the letter from the mantel. “Here is +word from home. We will pour more wine and +plan to send you back free from the talons of +the black eagle.”</p> + +<p>Steccho’s face softened in a glow of tenderness +as he caught the letter. There came the +noise from without of a footfall on the steps, +hesitant, doubtful. As the boy swept the +jewels from the table, a tapping sounded on +the outer door. Dmitri flung back the drapery +before the door of his bedroom.</p> + +<p>“There is the window,” he whispered. +“Watch out before you drop from it.”</p> + +<p>The knock came again, this time louder. He +lowered the light and went to answer it.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Carlota</span> stood on the threshold. Her face was +white in the semi-darkness. In the east a faint +quiver of radiance showed in the sky like the +reflection of moonlight on dark waters. Dmitri +stared at the girl in wonderment.</p> + +<p>“I want Griffeth,” she said eagerly. “I went +to his house and he has not been there. Oh, I +must see him, Dmitri! Tell me he is here with +you!”</p> + +<p>The underlying note of intense repression in +her voice struck him, and yet he hesitated, +fearful of Steccho’s safety.</p> + +<p>“He is not here. He left after midnight. Are +you alone, my dear?”</p> + +<p>“Surely I am alone; what do you suppose I +came for? Would you rather I went first to the +police? I came to you because you are his +friend and I need him.”</p> + +<p>She brushed past him into the narrow hallway. +He almost smiled at this twist to Griffeth’s +romance. With all the ardor and recklessness +of her temperament and race, Carlota +had flung discretion to the winds and had +come to seek the man she loved at all hazards. +Once inside his door, she let her cloak slip<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> +from her shoulders and stood in the center of +the room, a slender, isolated figure.</p> + +<p>“You are all afraid for yourselves,” she said +slowly, scornfully. “Even you, Dmitri, with all +the brotherliness you profess, think only of +yourself. Griffeth will not be like that. He will +understand that I never can go back there.”</p> + +<p>“You are excited and nervous.” Dmitri +took her cold hands in his with the whimsical, +cheery way that never failed to soothe. “Why +should you go to the police? Tell me what +has happened. It is surely a night of witchcraft +when foul fiends prowl. So, now sit down and +be very calm. I can always make you smile, +with my nonsense, you see?”</p> + +<p>She tried to meet his eyes, but her own +filled with tears and she bit her lip to keep +control of herself.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Dmitri, I am frightened, after all. Did +Griffeth tell you about the fête at Mrs. +Nevins’s and—and how I had deceived you +both, when you were so good to me? I only +sang for his sake, so his opera would surely be +a success. I never dreamt that any one would +be there who would recognize me; you believe +me, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>Dmitri lit a fresh cigarette with musing +eyes, tossed away the match, and hummed +Fiametta’s motif softly under his breath.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>“So you yourself have scaled the castle wall +to seek your love,” he said. “Did they try to +hold you from him?”</p> + +<p>“It is worse than you can think, Dmitri. To-night +when I returned there was no one in the +apartment. I called up Ogden Ward; do you +know him?”</p> + +<p>Dmitri’s level eyebrows contracted at the +name. He eyed her oddly, remembering Griffeth’s +words that the banker had been her +patron.</p> + +<p>“I know him; what then?”</p> + +<p>“He was stabbed in my apartment a little +while ago,” she whispered. “I sent for him to +come so that I might pay him back the money +he had advanced for three years. I offered him +some jewels that belonged to my grandmother. +He laughed at me when we were alone, and +said I had ruined my career by singing in the +opera and had broken my word to him by +meeting Griffeth and caring for him. I offered +him the rubies—”</p> + +<p>Dmitri bent over her suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Rubies?” he repeated quickly. “What were +they?”</p> + +<p>“They belonged to Margherita Paoli, my +grandmother. He had seen me wear them at +the fête, and told me on the way home he +wanted to buy them. But when I offered them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> +to him, he—he refused. We were alone and I +tried to fight him off. The lamp crashed to the +floor and I felt his arms close about me; then +I fainted.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri watched the long green curtains at +the bedroom door. They were motionless, yet +he crossed over and parted them casually to +glance within.</p> + +<p>“So,” he said in relief. “And then? Do not +hurry.”</p> + +<p>“I was unconscious for a while, and when I +recovered the room was still in darkness. I +found the push-button in the wall and turned +on the lights. Mr. Ward lay on the floor by +the couch. He made a sound of moaning and it +frightened me. Oh, Dmitri, it was horrible to +be alone with him there. I gave him water to +drink and saw that he was wounded in the +back. He told me to go quietly down and tell +Ishigaki who was waiting for him in his car. +I must be very careful and give no alarm, he +said. He had been stabbed and the jewels were +gone. After I had sent the Japanese up to help +him, I was afraid to go myself. I wanted Griffeth. +I knew they would try to keep me from +him.”</p> + +<p>“Why did you not call him at the house on +the Square?”</p> + +<p>“I did,” she protested. “He had not come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> +in yet, they told me. I left word for him that I +must see him.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri gazed at her glowing, expressive face +with half-closed, retrospective eyes. Surely +Fate had sent her to his door at the one hour +of opportunity. He would save the boy Steccho +from folly and crime, and give Griffeth back +his love.</p> + +<p>“Then he must have received your message +after he left here,” he said cheerily. “And he +will surely seek you at your own home. You +must go back there.”</p> + +<p>“I never will go back to them. I will wait +for him here,” she insisted. “They will blame +me for everything, for sending to Mr. Ward, +for the loss of the jewels, everything, and I +will not listen to them. I do not care for anything +in the whole world but Griffeth.”</p> + +<p>“Then you must safeguard him,” Dmitri +urged. “They may suspect him since he knew +of the jewels, and we who live and think as +nomads are ever under suspicion. Have you +not heard it said that all genius is insanity? It +is enough that he lives in the temperamental +zone of the village. Now, my dear child, you +are cold and nervous. You will see how well I +can take care of you. You shall sit here and +drink coffee for a few moments while I go and +telephone to Griffeth. And then”—he knelt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> +before the brazier, stirring and blowing the +embers to a blaze—“then we will have the +surprise. When you were very little, did you +not always love the surprise, eh? Sometimes +Life is still indulgent to us; even in our greatest +extremity, she grants us the surprise, and +it is this that keeps up our faith, that somehow, +somewhere, our own shall come to us, +see?”</p> + +<p>“If he is there when you call up, will you +tell him to come here to me?” She looked at +him with longing eyes, and Dmitri smiled +back at her.</p> + +<p>“Surely I will. Fate shuffles the cards, remember; +man only deals them. I have ever +found that we move in circles of coincidence +drawn together like the particles in the spectrum +by some immutable unseen force of attraction +to form a cosmic harmony. You like +that, do you? For, see, you go forth in the +night to seek your well-beloved, like the +Shulamite of old. Do you know her, my dear, +among the immortal lovers?” He measured +level spoonfuls of pulverized coffee into the +little copper pot carefully. “Yet you remind +me of her. So. When this boils up the third +time, then you shall drink it while I go for +your surprise.”</p> + +<p>Out in the street a car drew up before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> +the house next door. Count Jurka alighted, +scanned the small brass numbers on the door +carefully, and ascended the narrow steps. He +wore a cloak over his evening suit, the cape +thrown back over one shoulder, and as he +waited he hummed a waltz air from the last +opera he had heard in Bucharest. Surely the +road of fortune lay free to the intrepid traveler. +They had thought, with the sop of peace +thrown to her, that Bulgaria would lie still +like a whipped cur. The royalist cause was +denied recognition save as the latest king +licked the hand that fed him. Only in the old +queen, rebellious and restless in her exile, was +the spirit of dominion. He smiled as he recalled +her favors.</p> + +<p>“A straight line—a goal!”</p> + +<p>The line from Nietzsche swam through his +head. He felt supremely satisfied with life. +The message from Steccho had reached him at +the hotel and he had come himself. As he was +directed by the sleepy houseman to the room +at the top of the first flight of stairs, he balanced +the boy’s destiny for him. Was it wiser +to silence him now or on the voyage back? He +would leave it to Georges. Yet not even to +him would he give the pleasure of receiving +the royal rubies. He lit a cigarette at the head +of the stairs and tapped on the door.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>There was dead silence within. He tried the +knob, and found the key turned on the inner +side.</p> + +<p>“Open,” he said curtly. “It is I.”</p> + +<p>Steccho obeyed slowly. He had been sitting +on the narrow cot, his head buried in his +hands. His shirt was open at the throat as if +it had choked him. In the dim light from the +one gas-jet his face looked haggard and yellow +under his long, straight, disheveled hair.</p> + +<p>“You have kept me waiting.” Jurka closed +the door behind him, standing with his back +to it. “Where are the jewels?”</p> + +<p>The blood rushed to Steccho’s head. He +threw back his hair with a quick movement of +his head, and smiled in the old servile way.</p> + +<p>“I have them all, excellenza. One moment +only. You can swear to me by your own life +that I shall find all well at Rigl, that they will +be there to greet me, my mother and little +Maryna?”</p> + +<p>Around the lips of the Count there curved +an amused smile.</p> + +<p>“I swear to you I will send you where they +are,” he said slowly.</p> + +<p>As the meaning of his words flashed upon +the boy, he flung himself forward, his fingers +seizing his throat.</p> + +<p>“Go thou before me!” he gasped. “Liar<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> +and murderer, see who it is that kills you! +Look deep in my eyes! I, Ferad Steccho, send +you out of life! Think on my mother!” His +fingers choked the thin, white neck of Jurka +relentlessly, but the Count fought back with +all the advantage of a trained body and mind. +They fell on the couch together, locked in a +death-grapple. Almost without sound, save for +the stifled breathing, they fought until Jurka +wrenched himself free, and staggered back.</p> + +<p>“Excellenza!” Steccho breathed, his face +the very mask of hate, “I have heard the +truth. They are dead these five months, my +mother cut down by famine, my sister—Oh, +God, hear me!—Maryna is dead, a woman +thing thrown to your soldiers to be done to +death at their pleasure; you hear me! You +swore to me by the cross you would protect +them, and you knew this all the time you lied +to me. You knew when you sent me last night +to rob and kill for you.”</p> + +<p>“If I call for help, what then?” sneered +Jurka. “I will swear you robbed me.”</p> + +<p>“Call! Call on your queen to save you.” +The boy leaped upon him like a panther and +bore him to the floor, his bare hands gripping +remorselessly at the white, slim throat. He +bent over the mottled, horror-stricken face, +forcing the glazing eyes to stare into his, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> +laughed softly. “See, I could kill you with the +knife, but I will have you look at me, so, +straight to the door of death. Excellenza, the +rubies are red. Think on the blood of the innocents +you have killed, thousands and thousands. +They wait for you—”</p> + +<p>He felt the figure beneath him twist and +strain with one last tremendous effort to +force him off. The Count’s hands fumbled +blindly, searchingly, and there came a dull +report. Hardly had Steccho felt the touch of +the automatic as it was pressed to his side. +The pain was deadened by the joy of watching +the light die out of the staring, maddened eyes. +His fingers loosened their grasp unwittingly. +The form of Jurka crumpled to the floor, and +Steccho pressed his hands against his side, +looking at them curiously. Sinking into the +chair by the low table, he pulled the jewels +from his pockets. They were moist and dulled. +What was it Dmitri had warned him?</p> + +<p>“They are accursed. Red for the blood of +your people, pearls for the tears they have +shed.”</p> + +<p>He picked up the heavy tiara and dashed it +down into the dead face upon the floor.</p> + +<p>“Excellenza,” he whispered, “think on +them, they wait for you—” His head fell forward +on his breast. The lines of the wall-paper<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> +seemed to dance and entwine as life slipped +from his reach. “The sun shines on the yellow +castle,” he murmured huskily. “Maryna’s +hair, yellow in the sun, yellow like gold, excellenza, +and wet with blood.” He sighed +heavily, groping for something with the seeking +touch of the blind, something he had let +fall when he had seized the white throat of +Jurka. And suddenly there was utter silence +in the room, the curious silence where there is +no breath of life stirring.</p> + +<p>Next door Dmitri paused on the steps as he +closed the door behind him. In the east a glow +of deepest rose flushed the mother-of-pearl +clouds into shells of trembling, lambient radiance. +He eyed it happily. It was a symbol, +that promise of the daybreak. So in the earth-lands +overseas the dawn of humanity was +coming despite the upheavals of class struggles. +He would come back and pack after he had +returned Carlota safely to Griffeth, together +with the jewels. Then he and Steccho would +take the homeward way together. He glanced +down the shadowy street. There was no one in +sight. He entered the house by the basement +door. The houseman smiled and nodded to +him as he set out empty milk bottles. He +mounted the stairs with a light, buoyant step +and knocked at Steccho’s door. There was no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> +response, and he pushed the door open. Something +there was inside that lay close against +it, impeding his entrance, and he peered +around, thinking the boy had slept there in +heavy exhaustion.</p> + +<p>“Ferad!” he called cheerily. “It is daybreak. +You sleep late.”</p> + +<p>But the boy did not stir. He slept well in the +last bivouac, and, turning, Dmitri beheld the +other stark form beside him, he who had been +the court chamberlain, the debonair Jurka, +the queen’s messenger. Crushed in the hand +of Steccho was the letter from Sofia. He unclenched +the stiffened fingers gently and read +it with half-closed eyes and contracted muscles. +Placing it in his own inner pocket, he searched +both bodies. On Jurka he found a leather wallet +filled with bank-notes and documents. +There was no time to examine them. He noticed +only the Count’s personal card and the +address, the Hotel Dupont. In another pocket +was a bunch of keys which he took. Not a sign +was there in the room of the jewels. Only in +Steccho’s raincoat pocket he discovered a +large unset opal, one of those toys Ward had +played with, kept by the boy to please +Maryna. He went out as he had come, nodding +again to the houseman.</p> + +<p>There was no time to waste. There would be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> +the hue and cry of the police and newspapers. +He would be brought into it inevitably. Outside +the house he paused and lighted a cigarette +deliberately, then sauntered to the corner +where a light burned all night in the little +Bulgarian café of Barouki. It was part of the +creed of life to Barouki not to ask questions +of any one, which attribute rendered his place +popular among those who came from Sofia. +Dmitri greeted the sleepy-eyed old man, and +entered the dusty booth at the end of the café. +His voice was pleasant and comradely as he +called the apartment of Ogden Ward.</p> + +<p>“But you will be kind enough to disturb +him, nevertheless,” he urged upon Ishigaki. +“Tell him I have an opal to return to him.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri came from the café with a little +smile on his lips. He hailed a becalmed taxi in +front of a chop-house near the elevated station, +and drove back for Carlota.</p> + +<p>“I should never have come to you, should +I?” she asked, tiredly, as she leaned her head +back on the cushions. “What was the surprise?”</p> + +<p>“My very dear child,” he said tenderly, +“you must trust me. I believe in fate and opportunity, +in what we call in my land the hour +appointed, and never in my life have I been +permitted to watch the gods at work so much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> +as now. Sleep awhile as we drive uptown. I +will waken you at Fifty-Ninth Street, where I +leave you. And you must not be afraid. Love +is eternal. Nothing can kill it. Remember that. +Only keep faith with yourself.”</p> + +<p>He watched her lips relax and her lashes +droop. As the car hurried uptown through +silent streets the hum of the city gradually +began, the far-off call of the ferry-boats +sounded in the gray sea mist, a fire engine +clanged down Fourth Avenue. Dmitri folded +his arms, looking straight ahead of him, and +seeing two set faces under the flickering gaslight. +They had passed out of the play, Jurka +and the boy Ferad. Who had profited by their +death? The queen’s rubies still lured with their +unholy splendor another’s feet along the trail +of death.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIX</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> telephone bell rang in the living-room. +Carlota lifted her head eagerly from the pillow +to listen as Maria answered.</p> + +<p>“It is quite impossible. Miss Trelango is ill +and cannot come to the telephone herself.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Maria, but I can—please—” Carlota +called breathlessly from the inner bedroom, +but the voice went on inexorably and +with chill finality.</p> + +<p>“I regret I cannot listen any further. It is +impossible for her to see you.”</p> + +<p>Carlota sat up in bed, slim and tragic, her +wealth of dark hair tumbling about her +shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Was that Mr. Ames? You begged me to +come and talk to Jacobelli not five minutes +ago, and now you say that I am too ill to get +up.”</p> + +<p>“Cara mia, you are not to excite yourself +with anger,” Maria soothed her. “Lie very +still, my preciosa, relax your nerves. Remember +agitation is very bad for your voice.”</p> + +<p>“But you will not understand, Maria,” she +protested. “This is the man I love, the man I +shall surely marry, and you will not even let<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> +me speak to him when I know how troubled +he is. I must see him, Maria. If you really +loved me, you would not keep us apart.”</p> + +<p>“Would I not?” Maria repeated fervently. +“How did he know this number?”</p> + +<p>“I do not know,” Carlota asserted proudly. +“I did not even tell him my name, nothing at +all.”</p> + +<p>“So? Then it is maybe—the Marchese. He +is soft-hearted. He regards this as a romance +when it is a calamity. Do you realize what it +means, Jacobelli saying Ward insists everything +is to be canceled if you persist in jeopardizing +your career?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Ward?” Carlota smiled. “When did +he say that? Not to-day surely?”</p> + +<p>“You are concealing something from me.” +Maria bent over her with wide, accusing eyes, +even while her fingers stroked her hair fondly. +“Ah, if I had never gone to Casanova’s reception, +I might have saved you everything, +the wild escapade at this Mrs. Nevins’s, the +exposé, the loss of the jewels, the horror of +last night—Now, behold, your career is +ruined.”</p> + +<p>Carlota was silent, her eyes bright with +anger. It was all they thought of, the money +which Ward had given for her musical education, +the door which he might have opened for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> +her to success. They thought that life was +made up only of achievement. Even Maria, +whom she had loved and leaned upon always, +had veered completely over to the enemy, and +found a sacred obligation in keeping her thus, +behind the wall of Tittani. She closed her eyes +as Maria’s voice declaimed solemnly:</p> + +<p>“With the world at her feet, Paoli tossed it +aside like a withered flower and retired to her +villa with only her friends and her memories. +Bianca, your beloved mother, fled with her +love and died, still half a child. This is only +the very first false dawn of love, carina. You +will forget him in a month. Ah, if I could but +take you back, for even a little while, to the +garden.”</p> + +<p>“If you try to part us, I will never sing +again,” Carlota told her tragically. “I will +never accept any aid from Mr. Ward again.”</p> + +<p>“Then you are what Jacobelli called you, an +ingrate, after all the love and hope we have +lavished upon you.” Maria was weeping +plenteously, helplessly, as she realized the +power behind Carlota’s words.</p> + +<p>The outer bell rang, silencing the argument. +Hurriedly she went to open it, while the girl +slipped from the bed, flung a silk robe over +her shoulders, and slipped her feet into satin +mules. If it should be Griffeth, if he had really<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> +dared to come again to penetrate her tower of +durance, she would force them to let her see +him. She listened eagerly for his voice. Instead +it was a messenger boy, bearing Ames’s first +shell into the enemy’s camp. He had gone +from the telephone booth, and had spent all +he had in an orgy of roses from a flower-stand.</p> + +<p>“Return them. There is no answer,” Maria +said firmly.</p> + +<p>But the boy was loyal. Stolidly he insisted +there was no place to return them. The gentleman +had gone on his way. In the doorway +Carlota appeared suddenly and Maria stepped +back from the look in her eyes as she took the +long box as if it had been a tiny bambino. +Holding it close to her breast, she went back +to her bed, her chin pressed against it.</p> + +<p>“I shall not even speak to you or look at +you, if you treat me like this, Maria. I am not +a child,” she said haughtily. “Whatever he +sends to me, you will regard it as sacred.”</p> + +<p>“You are not responsible. You are unreasonable +and reckless, and I shall lock you in your +room. The Marchese and Jacobelli will be here +later, and then you will tell them the truth +about last night.”</p> + +<p>“I will tell them nothing.” Carlota held her +breath, listening to the turn of the lock in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> +door, and shrugged her shoulders as she laid +her face on the red roses. It would not do to +break her heart in solitude, not when she knew +he was thinking of her and trying to reach her. +Dmitri would surely find him and tell him all +that had occurred the previous night. He would +clear him of any charge Ward might lodge +against him. What charge could they bring, +save that he had befriended the boy Steccho +and had loved her? Ingrate, they called her. +The word puzzled her. She found her little red +morocco dictionary in her desk drawer and +looked it up in deepest interest. The definition +was brief and to the point:</p> + +<p>“Ingrate: One who is ungrateful.”</p> + +<p>Sitting up in bed, girl fashion, she leaned her +elbows on her knees, and thought seriously. +The melody of “Cerca d’Amore” ran through +her mind, the quest of love, and all her being +seemed to become, in some mystical sense, a +chalice to hold this divine essence of love that +had glorified her life. Impulsively she turned +the pages to the word “love.” The definition +was vague and unsatisfactory.</p> + +<p>“Love: to have affection.”</p> + +<p>She pursed her lips, and gravely sought another +route to knowledge.</p> + +<p>“Husband: a man who marries a woman.”</p> + +<p>This was utterly absurd to a seeker after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span> +life’s greatest, sweetest mystery. She hurried +to “wife,” and found merely an echo.</p> + +<p>“Wife: a woman who marries a man.”</p> + +<p>Last of all, she found “marriage.” It was +positively trite.</p> + +<p>“Marriage: wedlock.”</p> + +<p>Under “wedlock” she discovered “marriage.” +She hurled the little book from her, +and seized a pencil and pad from the stand beside +her.</p> + +<p>“Love,” she dashed off impetuously, “the +divine gift that joins two hearts for eternity.”</p> + +<p>This looked nearer the ecstasy of real truth. +Not that one could even approach in words the +expression of the miracle of love, but this was +closer. In the next room Maria sang a tender +old chant of the nuns at Leguna Marino, the +tiny town that clung to the cliffs below Villa +Tittani. This was a ruse, to lift her mind from +earthly things, she knew, and yet she tried +again, her own improvements in the lexicon of +love.</p> + +<p>“Marriage,” she wrote carefully. “The +blessed union of two souls who love perfectly.”</p> + +<p>It was an inspired improvement on the dictionary +definition, she thought, and after +“love” she added, “the divine gift that awakens +souls to life’s meaning.”</p> + +<p>Maria would never understand. She would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> +smile at her pityingly and guard her from the +passion that was her heritage. Jacobelli would +rage and beat the air and denounce all romance +as a detractor of art, but the old Marchese, he +would sympathize with her. Sometimes, when +he sat at dinner with them, smoking leisurely, +a smile of content on his fine old face, she had +often wondered what memories lay behind his +charm of manner and unfailing understanding +with youth’s heritage of yearning. With the +rose on the pillow beside her and the little pad +in her hand, she fell asleep.</p> + +<p>In the living-room Maria Roma knelt beside +the Florentine chest, selecting the remainder +of the Paoli collection to be deposited in the +safety vault. It was true, as Ward had told +Jacobelli the previous night, coming from the +Nevins fête, neither Carlota nor she had appreciated +the full value of the royal gems. The +stolen rubies alone were worth several hundred +thousand dollars, yet Carlota had worn them +as if they had been paste. There was not another +stone in the world that could compare in +purity with the Zarathustra ruby. Maria knew +the story of how it had come into the possession +of Margherita Paoli, nearly half a century +before. She had heard of the impassioned +young Balkan prince who had cast all he +owned at the feet of the most beautiful woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> +in Europe. When she would have returned the +rubies, he had refused them, even with the +knowledge of her affair with Tennant.</p> + +<p>“You deny me your love. Let the rubies tell +you ever of mine. I may not hold you in my +arms. Let them rest on your glorious hair, +your throat, your breast, telling you forever +that Boris loved you.”</p> + +<p>Yet it was doubtful whether Paoli herself +had even grasped the great value of the jewels. +She had never been the type of woman to seek +the price of anything. It belittled rather than +enhanced the value of a thing to have it rated. +So the rubies had lain for years in the old chest +with her other jewels, half forgotten as the +years went by, and Crown Prince Boris had +long since lain upon his gold and purple catafalque.</p> + +<p>Delicately and precisely Maria placed each +remaining piece in its separate velvet case, +sighing heavily over her task. The burden of +responsibility laid by the old Contessa upon +her shoulders, weighed heavily in the present +crisis. Love or ambition? Which pathway was +the feet of girlhood to follow when genius had +given wings for flight? It would be fatal for +Carlota, on the threshold of her career, to +marry as her mother had done, flinging all into +the balance of romance. Yet there came a thrill<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> +to Maria’s Trentino blood as she realized how +the old Marchese sympathized with such recklessness.</p> + +<p>It was all quite simple, he had told her the +previous night when they had returned and +found Carlota gone, the jewels stolen, and +Ishigaki caring for Ward. While Ward had +smiled at her inscrutably as she wept and demanded +the truth, the old Marchese had ignored +him, and had calmed her gently.</p> + +<p>“Whatever has happened, there is no cause +for alarm. Youth and art, a boy and girl singing +love duets together, pouf! What would +they have come from such a tragedy, she and +Jacobelli, and Mr. Ward himself? Compel a +girl like Carlota to don gray and walk softly to +set measures like some little novice, a girl with +the Trelango and Paoli blood beating love’s +tempo in her veins!”</p> + +<p>“But her voice, her career?” she had protested +wildly. “Is it nothing, all we have done +and hoped for her?”</p> + +<p>The Marchese had smiled tenderly.</p> + +<p>“Jacobelli is a great teacher,” he said, “but +there is one greater than he. His heartstrings +are insulated copper wires, my dear Maria. +And for the rubies—remember what the old +Contessa herself used to say of them, that they +were accursed, pearls for the tears of an oppressed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> +people, rubies for the blood of the innocent? +Regret them not. I have never craved +such things myself, not while there is truth and +beauty and love left to us to cherish.”</p> + +<p>Carlota slept heavily, dreamlessly, the sleep +of utter exhaustion of mind and body after the +long night. Through her windows the late autumn +sunlight poured an amber glow. A mellow +stillness seemed to lie over the city as if +the hush of Indian summer had already laid a +finger upon the laughing lips of Manhattan. +Even the ringing of the outer bell when the +Marchese arrived failed to rouse her. He was +smiling and debonair as ever, bearing his customary +votive offering of flowers. Laying his +gloves upon his hat on the piano, he beamed +upon Maria’s anxious face.</p> + +<p>“Cheer up, my friend,” he exclaimed. “The +world is very beautiful this afternoon. Where +is Carlota? So, asleep.” He lowered his voice. +“That is better, for you and I, Maria, have +seen life, have looked it in the face and not +quailed, have we not, and we are not afraid, +where she is very young and tender.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, what now?” Maria whispered, her +hands pressed to her temples. “He is not +here?”</p> + +<p>“He? Who, the boy Griffeth? No, no, my +dear, he is not here. In fact, he may be quite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span> +safe behind prison bars by night. That would +please you, yes?”</p> + +<p>“In prison? For persecuting her with his attentions?”</p> + +<p>“No, for complicity in the attempt to murder +Ogden Ward and the robbery of the jewels. +I have just come from Ward himself. He is not +injured seriously. The ribs deflected the blow. +His greatest wish is to avoid all publicity—naturally.”</p> + +<p>The sardonic note in his tone struck Maria.</p> + +<p>“You surely do not place any reliance in +what she said last night? She was excited and +distraught. A child like that would mistake +the fervor of love for an attack—”</p> + +<p>She stopped short. Carlota stood in the +doorway, slim and erect in a hasty toilette. +She had overheard their voices and arisen. +With the long refreshing sleep had come high +resolve. The Marchese, looking at her arrayed +in a long, clinging négligé of creamy lace, with +its borders of rich fur, thought of the young +Paoli in her first fire of love.</p> + +<p>“Ah, cara mia,” exclaimed Maria eagerly, +“you have rested. Kiss your old cross Maria, +so. We dine with the Marchese to-night; you +will like that, yes?”</p> + +<p>Carlota shook her head, her eyes brilliant +with resentment and determination.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>“I will not go,” she said passionately. “You +have treated me as if I were a spoiled child, +locking me in my room. What is this about +Ward accusing Griffeth, Marchese? He was +not even here last night.”</p> + +<p>“But where was he, then, my child? The +night doorman tells another story. He was +here after you had left.”</p> + +<p>Carlota’s eyes closed and opened again +widely, fearlessly.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Ward dares to accuse Griffeth of the +robbery and attack on himself, does he?”</p> + +<p>“No. He is very considerate, my dear, very +kind,” Veracci assured her tenderly. “You are +over-anxious and must not lose the perspective +of things. Mr. Ward has silenced the news of +the robbery. There is nothing at all in the papers. +He is handling the entire affair most diplomatically, +with private detectives, and the +police commissioner muzzled. Ah, he is very +clever. His own wound is nothing to him, but +the loss of the jewels is everything. His theory +is this, you have been meeting friends of Ames, +no doubt, in his studio. You may have spoken +of the jewels—”</p> + +<p>“I did not!” flashed Carlota.</p> + +<p>“Possibly without intent. You wore them +at the fête. There has been a secret search going +on for these royal gems, it appears, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span> +months. Ward knew all about it. He did not +know they were in your possession until the +night of the fête, he says. They are part of the +crown jewels of Bulgaria.”</p> + +<p>“But they were given to Margherita outright +by Boris himself,” protested Maria; +“there was no theft. They were hers.”</p> + +<p>“He had no right to give them.” The old +Marchese spoke gently. “When the revolution +came and Ferdinand fled, Sophia took the +crown jewels with her. Since then, Ward tells +me, parts of them have been turning up at +every jewel mart in the world, where she has +sought to raise funds for the royalist cause. +These were traced to America from Italy by a +man named Count Jurka, the queen’s chamberlain. +Ward knew him. He was found dead +this morning.”</p> + +<p>Maria stared at him in silence. Carlota came +to his side quickly, her face white with dread, +as she remembered Dmitri’s promise to find +the jewels.</p> + +<p>“Where?”</p> + +<p>“In a room on East Twenty-Eighth Street. +It is in the Bulgarian quarter, next door to +where a man lives named Dmitri Kavec, the +closest friend of Griffeth Ames. My dear,” as +his arm encircled her swaying figure, “you +must be strong. He was found with another, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span> +Bulgarian boy called Steccho, also a friend of +Ames and Kavec’s. Have you met them at his +studio?”</p> + +<p>“I know Dmitri Kavec,” she said brokenly, +her hands covering her face. “Has he accused +Griffeth?”</p> + +<p>“He has not been found himself. That is +why they are going to hold the boy as witness +against him, and for possible complicity in the +crime. Did you see the man who entered this +room last night and took the jewels?”</p> + +<p>Carlota stared up at him almost beseechingly, +and shook her head.</p> + +<p>“I fainted when Mr. Ward’s arms touched +me.” She shuddered at the memory of that +moment. “But I know Dmitri is not guilty.” +She hesitated. Dmitri, Griffeth’s friend, to +whom she had gone last night in her trouble. +His buoyant words rang in her mind when he +had left her. She was to have no fear. He +would recover the jewels for her and bring +them to her. Did he have them in his possession +at that very moment? Was it all part of +some secret conspiracy to escape with them +himself, defrauding not only her, but Jurka as +well? She lifted her head with swift resolution.</p> + +<p>“I am going to Griffeth. No, you cannot +hold me, Maria. Come with me if you like, but +I am going to him. He will need me greatly. If<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> +you will not, then I must ask the Marchese to +take me to him.”</p> + +<p>And Maria Roma, looking into her eyes, +knew the days of girlhood had passed and the +feet of Paoli’s grandchild had scaled the wall of +Tittani in her quest for love.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XX</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sauntering</span> from the elevated station at +Eighth Street over to the Square, Jacobelli +mused upon the vagaries of a golden voice. +His point of view was changing with the speed +of an Alpine tourist. Maria had acquainted +him with the decision of Carlota.</p> + +<p>“Ah, signor, believe me, she does not feign +illness. Her heart is not breaking. It is freezing, +which is worse. Never will she sing again, +she declares, if you deny her the one whom she +loves. She spoke his name in her sleep. It is the +romance beautiful, the divine fire from heaven +alighted upon the altar of a woman’s heart, it +is—”</p> + +<p>“Enough!” exclaimed Jacobelli. “I capitulate. +Doubtless she is right. Two—three years +nearly I have taught her all I know, and yet +what is it? She cannot sing the wonderful +heart-throb music as the great woman artiste +must. Not all the technique in the world can +put it into her voice; yet one day she meets the +man she loves, and lo! it is there, she excels. I +knew it when she came to me that day at the +studio after she had quarreled with him. I +heard it then in her voice, the glory—the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> +abandon—the power of the woman who +claims the universe for her love. And I am a +fool, Maria, I lose my head entirely. I am +jealous of this unknown teacher who has opened +the heart of my star. I hate him. At the Nevins +fête I make the grand fool of myself, signora. +But now, I see, I bow. Let her have her love if +she will. I have lunched with the Marchese, +and am at peace with the world. After the +honeymoon tell her we will resume her lessons.”</p> + +<p>He felt marvelously benevolent as he made +his way towards Ames’s studio. Possibly his +luncheon chat with the Marchese had much to +do with it, also the fact that later he had seen +Casanova. Count D’Istria had kept his word +to Griffeth, and Casanova, ever ready to observe +the way of the wind with managerial +straws, had promised to bring the operetta to +the immediate attention of the Metropolitan +directors with his sanction on its production +the coming season.</p> + +<p>Finding his way up the three flights of +stairs, Jacobelli knocked upon the door with +his cane. Griffeth lay full length upon the +cushions of the dormer window-seat, depressed +and miserable. He had been awake all night, +striving to get into communication with Carlota +or Dmitri, and had missed them at every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> +point. Still his flowers had not been returned. +He had ascertained that much from the lad at +the flower-stand in the old market. He had +sent twice to Dmitri’s house and he had not +returned since daybreak, they said.</p> + +<p>The rap on the outer door made him spring +to unlock it, expecting either Dmitri or a +message from Carlota. Instead there stood +upon his threshold Guido Jacobelli, from whom +he had been parted by interested friends only +a night before, the one man in New York +whom he regarded as his enemy. He gave him +no invitation to enter, but stood like a glowering, +expectant young stag, ready for the onslaught +of his adversary.</p> + +<p>Jacobelli waved him aside airily, and entered +the room, making himself at home in the large +oak armchair, and stroking Ptolemy who +strolled over to inspect him.</p> + +<p>“We make friends, what you say, my boy?” +he asked genially. “I forgive you from my +heart all you do to me in the past, see? Why? +Because I, Jacobelli, make the great discovery. +You speak the truth. She is your pupil.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” asked Griffeth suspiciously. +“I heard all that you said of her +last evening. I understand perfectly that she +is Paoli’s granddaughter and backed by the +patronage of Ogden Ward. I do not know why<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> +it was her whim to come down here and play +at being my pupil. It has ruined my work and +broken my heart, but I wish her all the success +and happiness in the world.”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli beamed at him archly, his black +eyebrows rising in crescents, his lips a smiling, +close curve above his two double chins.</p> + +<p>“She came here because she loves you, my +boy, because she longed to give you her wonderful +voice in your operetta. She is Love’s +pupil. One day she opens her mouth to sing for +me, and, my God! it is there, the temperament +I have prayed for, it is there, and you have +given it to her. I salute you.”</p> + +<p>“Has she sent you to me?” asked Griffeth +eagerly. “May I see her at once?”</p> + +<p>Jacobelli chuckled, stroking the yellow fur +of Ptolemy until it crackled.</p> + +<p>“I know nothing of her. I have not seen her +since last night, but the Signora Roma tells me +she has tormented them all because they would +not permit her to see you. In fact, she tried to +reach you last night; you knew this?”</p> + +<p>“I found her message when I returned. I +tried to see her and walked back home through +the Park.”</p> + +<p>“Which is just as well.” The old maestro +smiled significantly. “Youth is utterly mad. +You rave now, and say your career is ended.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> +My poor boy, you have not heard from Casanova, +no? This very hour he tells me they will +surely produce your operetta next season. Is +not that enough?”</p> + +<p>“The operetta?” repeated Griffeth grimly. +“I had forgotten all about it. When I lost her +everything went out of my life. I felt like using +the world for a football and kicking the stars +up a little higher out of reach. You don’t know +how blank life seemed to me until she came +down here. I had been across during the war +with Carrollton Phelps in the Aerial Service. +We fell about the same time, and after months +of being patched up, I was sent home, excess +baggage on the war wagon. I was twenty then, +and when I had my grip back, my father let +me do as I pleased, and I came here to work +out some of the things I had always hoped to +do. I’ve felt like an idler beating out harmonies +in this bird’s-eye castle until she came.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will tell you something to comfort +you and light the path again. Always remember +the path is there even though you are in +darkness.” Jacobelli pressed his finger-tips together, +his eyes brilliant with the fire of enthusiasm. +“One of your own great men has said +he would rather write the songs of a nation +than its laws. We are but teachers, my boy. +You who compose music are the living current<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> +between humanity and those mighty, immutable +laws of harmony and vibration which +move the universe, is it not so?—and love is +the greatest of all divine laws.”</p> + +<p>From a street piano at the curb below the +studio windows the melody of the “Barcarole” +came to them in ascending volume. A taxicab +drew up beside it. Carlota could almost have +blown kisses to each dear, remembered spot +along the Square as she alighted with Maria. +Only forty-eight hours since she had been to +the studio, yet the tidal wave of circumstance +had nearly swept the happiness of her life out +to sea. She smiled at the Greek boy beside the +pushcart, smiled at the children playing in the +patches of ground before the old brownstone +row of houses, smiled almost in the face of +Sergeant Lorrie, of the Central Detective Bureau, +as she passed him on the steps.</p> + +<p>Maria followed her, resigned and tragic. She +had called up the Marchese at the final moment, +even after he had left them and returned +to the Lafayette, to tell him Carlota’s ultimate +choice, and to her amazement the old Italian +courtier had congratulated her on her own defeat.</p> + +<p>“Remember, signora,” he had urged buoyantly, +a “certain ancient gentleman of varied +experience in matrimony, one King Solomon,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> +has stated as his opinion that love is stronger +than death and many waters cannot quench +it. I agree with him perfectly. Request our beloved +Carlota that she will permit my presence +at her nuptials with Pierrot. I have a penchant +for romantic weddings. They recall to me the +fragrance of roses abloom at Vallombrosa. +Once, as we two walked under the olive grove +years ago, you refused me, Maria mia. When +you are tempted to be unyielding and forbidding +to these children, these two lovers, remember +Vallombrosa, I implore you. Had you said +yes, I should not have carried the fragrance +of roses as a bitter-sweet memory all my life +long.”</p> + +<p>So it happened that, despite her sense of +duty to the last wishes of the old Contessa, +Maria felt a thrill of sympathy in the great +adventure as she followed Carlota into the +studio on the top floor.</p> + +<p>“We have come for Carlota’s sake,” she +said majestically. “It is against my wishes and +judgment, but we are here, signor. You have +won.”</p> + +<p>“What is it, dear?” exclaimed Griffeth, as +he held Carlota’s hands in his. “You are cold +as ice, and trembling.” He drew her favorite +Roman chair forward to the open grate fire, +but Carlota drew back.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span>There were shadows beneath her eyes and +entreaty in the glance she gave him.</p> + +<p>“Have you heard from Dmitri?”</p> + +<p>“Not a word since midnight. I left him then; +why?”</p> + +<p>She sank into the chair as he stooped eagerly +to rouse the fire to a blaze. “Why, it is almost +laughable to find you here just as always, +perfectly safe, and you even seem happy.”</p> + +<p>“I am happy. Jacobelli has just left me and +we are great friends. He came to tell me the +operetta is accepted by Casanova. Isn’t that +great news, dear?”</p> + +<p>“And you have heard nothing at all of what—what +happened last night? No one has been +here?”</p> + +<p>“No one. What do you mean?” He rose as +Maria crossed to the window and watched the +Square below.</p> + +<p>“The Marchese came and told us. Oh, +Griffeth, it is all so horrible, and I know, I +know that you had nothing to do with it. You +do not need to tell me so.”</p> + +<p>He held her close in his arms as she reached +out to him, and Maria told the news quickly, +of the robbery and attack on Ward.</p> + +<p>“They have implicated you because of your +association with one of the men who is dead +and the man who is missing, Dmitri.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span>“Dmitri!” repeated Griffeth. “What do you +mean? Dmitri is my friend. Who is dead?”</p> + +<p>“Griffeth, do you remember”—Carlota +lifted her head from his shoulder—“the +young Bulgarian I told you always followed +me? The one Dmitri recognized from the window +here and told me I was never to fear him? +This morning we heard from the old Marchese +that a double murder had been committed +next door to where Dmitri lived. No, please do +not speak yet,” as he gave a startled exclamation. +“One of the men was the Bulgarian boy, +and they suspect Dmitri.”</p> + +<p>“And you yourself, because you are his +friend,” Maria added solemnly. “The Marchese +assured us you would be arrested for +complicity.”</p> + +<p>“But why did you come here last night?”</p> + +<p>Carlota hesitated, but Maria’s eyes were +tender.</p> + +<p>“Because I wanted you to help me,” she +said slowly. “There was no one else to go to, +and I was in trouble. Mr. Ward came to the +apartment to buy my rubies and while he was +there he was assaulted and robbed.”</p> + +<p>“Were you hurt?”</p> + +<p>“I fainted.” Carlota’s lashes drooped before +his steady gaze. “And afterwards I was afraid +to go back.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>“Why?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>Maria’s hands fluttered out eagerly.</p> + +<p>“You must not ask her disturbing questions +when she is so nervous. It is all very terrible, +and mostly so for me. I was to have protected +and guarded her, and now, behold, it is as if +she was utterly alone and friendless.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, do not even think about me!” Carlota +cried passionately. “Where is Dmitri, Griffeth? +You believe in him, do you not? Maria, leave +me here alone. I must speak to him in confidence. +Forgive me, tanta mia, I love and trust +you, but this concerns his friend. You will go, +just for a little while, won’t you?”</p> + +<p>The roses of Vallombrosa. Signora Roma met +the pleading look in her eyes and the words of +the old Marchese rang in her mind like a sacred +charge. Romance and youth and Vallombrosa. +If she had not been ambitious too, and +had set her art ahead of love, what a long fair +road of companionship and happiness life +might have been with Bernardo Dinari, Marchese +di Veracci. The tears rushed to her eyelids, +and she sighed heavily in surrender as she +folded Carlota to her breast.</p> + +<p>“Take her from us,” she said to Griffeth. +“Ah, I am no longer blind and hard of heart. +You have taught her well, signor, and after all, +it is life’s sweetest and richest song. I will go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> +and walk in the Square and think I am back in +Italy.”</p> + +<p>Ames closed the door behind her, leaning +against it, looking longingly at the girl standing +in the light from the dormer windows. +Ptolemy leaped up to her, rubbing his tawny +length affectionately against her, his eyes +gleaming like topaz.</p> + +<p>“Dear, look at me,” he said eagerly. “You +came to me again, just as you did that first +day, my wonder girl. Even after everything, +you had faith in me—”</p> + +<p>She held her hands out to him, giving them +to his clasp, yet holding him back.</p> + +<p>“Have we any right to take our own happiness +when it makes so many wretched? Maria, +who brought me up and gave me all her love +and care, and dear old Jacobelli—”</p> + +<p>“But they are all willing now. It isn’t +selfish, dear. It is our right. Remember how +Dmitri always said we were the inheritors of +all the love dreams of the past, and must hold +the torch high for those who come after us. +You know all you have been to me for months, +what it meant to both of us that first night at +Phelps’s when you met my eyes, and it seemed +as if everything in my whole being called out +to you in gladness. Carlota, don’t keep me +from you! Why did you come here last night<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> +to find me, why are you here to-day, why did +Jacobelli come and tell me frankly it was our +love that had given your voice its power and +new beauty? Yet I’ve never even kissed you +once, never held you in my arms—”</p> + +<p>Her eyes closed as his arms clasped about +her and he turned her towards him in a silent, +tense embrace. When she lifted her head, she +was smiling, her lashes wet with tears.</p> + +<p>“This is not the right ending for the opera. +I have passed the wall of Tittani and found +you and there is no peril or suspense at all, just +the two of us here in the dear old studio, and +Ptolemy to turn his back and not look at us. +He is a gentleman, isn’t he, Griffeth?”</p> + +<p>Across the Square along the diagonal path +to the old studio building Dmitri walked with +an easy, long-stepped gait. The troops that had +surged over the Belachrista Pass had the same +stride. The collar of his coat was turned up, +his brown felt hat pulled low over his eyes, his +cigarette pointing upward. He had passed a +pleasant and profitable night. So engrossed he +was in smiling at the future that he failed to +observe Signora Roma waiting in the circle by +the fountain, failed to notice three loiterers +about the old studio row. One watched the +dormer windows of the garret. One stood at +the corner of MacDougal Street to take note<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> +of possible exits over adjacent roofs in case of +need. One leaned against the iron railing in the +front yard and chatted with the unwitting +caretaker, and Dmitri passed them all by +jauntily. Would it be wiser, he mused, to tell +Griffeth Ames everything? He had trained +him for months in the new law of humanity’s +rights, yet was he not too young to recognize +the imperative need for silence. The breaking +dawn called to Dmitri’s imagination. The +chant of the oppressed sounded in his ears, not +the old galley chorus that had kept time to the +rhythm of an Attic boatswain’s flute, nor the +call from the steppe prisons that had been the +newborn wail of Russia’s freedom. The old +order had already changed. The heavens were +rolling away as a parchment before the new +dayspring. A little struggling here and there, +he told himself, over the earth’s surface, a little +blindness in the new light from eyes long used +to darkness, but steadily, inevitably the daybreak +would sweep on and in the full sunlight +men should find themselves gazing into one +another’s eyes without fear and hatred and +greed.</p> + +<p>He mounted the three flights rapidly, two +steps at a time, tapped on the door, and +opened before Griffeth could reach it.</p> + +<p>“Aha!” cried Dmitri. “And so we may be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> +sure that spring will come again! Are you Harlequin +or Pierrot this afternoon, or all the immortal +lovers of romance at once? And have +you coffee for a wayfarer? I have walked all +over the city since daybreak. I see that in spite +of my precautions, Columbine has found her +way right straight back to the chimney-pot and +the cat and the melody of one Pierrot.”</p> + +<p>He sank down in the old dusty velvet chair +by the fireplace, his hair tousled into curls. +Carlota gazed at him with wondering, questioning +eyes. Dmitri, no subtle, terrified +criminal hiding from the law, but as she had +ever known him, the happy, confident, scholarly +friend. She forgot everything but his danger.</p> + +<p>“Why”—she turned appealingly to Griffeth—“it’s +almost laughable—it’s like some +horrible dream—that I am here with you +both just as always, and you are safe, +Dmitri—”</p> + +<p>“Why should I not be safe?” He smiled at +her with keen, brilliant eyes. “It is a most +charming surprise to find you here, I admit. I +was only going to drop in and see my favorite +friend before I leave. I was going to entrust to +him a commission, but since you are here—”</p> + +<p>The door of the studio opened noiselessly. +Dmitri’s lips were silenced by the sight behind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span> +Griffeth and the girl. Lorrie, of the Central +Bureau, was not a person of dramatic instincts +or emotional possibilities. He stood in the +patch of sunlight from the hall skylight, his +hands in his pockets, his hat pushed back on +his head. The hands grasped two automatics, +but Lorrie never obtruded them on the sensibilities +of those he was sent to find until he +found it necessary. He stepped into the room, +a slight smile on his lips as he took in the +group. Behind him stood two of his men.</p> + +<p>“Kavec,” he said curtly, “you’re under +arrest for the double murder of Jurka and +Steccho.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri never stirred.</p> + +<p>“But he is my friend, Carrollton Phelps’s +friend!” exclaimed Griffeth hotly. “I was with +him up to midnight myself.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t worry, you’re in too,” returned +Lorrie laconically. “Complicity in the robbery, +accessory to the crime, and then some. +Search them.”</p> + +<p>“But I was with Mr. Kavec myself until +early this morning,” Carlota declared suddenly, +her face lifted high, her eyes avoiding +Griffeth’s. “He had nothing to do with the +robbery. He did not even know about it until I +told him myself. It is impossible that he could +have done this thing—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span>She stopped dead short, the color leaving +her lips. From Dmitri’s pockets the detectives +drew the rubies of the exiled queen. One by one +the separate pieces were laid upon the table, +the necklace, the loosely linked pendants, the +girdle ornament.</p> + +<p>Dmitri lit a cigarette with steady fingers.</p> + +<p>“The tiara is inside my other coat,” he said. +“It would be a shame to break the set.”</p> + +<p>“Dmitri, my God, what have you done!” +gasped Griffeth. “Carlota, go to Maria, out of +this. I swear I knew absolutely nothing. Dmitri, +tell her Steccho gave them to you, didn’t +he? Say something, man, can’t you?”</p> + +<p>“He’s got nothing to say,” Lorrie answered. +“Look here.” He threw out papers on the table +from Dmitri’s coat pockets. “Passage engaged +for Naples, sailing to-morrow. A quick get-away, +eh, Kavec.”</p> + +<p>“I do not believe one word of it!” flashed +Carlota. “Who ordered this arrest? The jewels +were mine. I have made no complaint of being +robbed. Oh, I do not want any of them back. I +hate the sight of them.”</p> + +<p>She sank down in a chair, her face covered +by her hands, her shoulders shaken with sobs, +deep, tearless, broken sobs of hopelessness. As +Ogden Ward entered the room hers was the +first form his eyes rested on. Leaning heavily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span> +upon a cane and Ishigaki’s arm, he walked +slowly, and with evident pain. Behind him was +the tall, dignified figure of the Marchese, his +kindly face troubled and keen when he beheld +the group within the studio.</p> + +<p>“My dear child”—he was beside Carlota +instantly. “I am so very sorry for you. I never +dreamt of all this. I deemed it my duty to acquaint +Mr. Ward with your intention to come +here as proof of your finality, and he would +come also, therefore I am with him.”</p> + +<p>Dmitri’s gaze never left the face of Ward. +Steadily he looked at him, not sardonically +nor with any animosity, but rather whimsically +and pityingly.</p> + +<p>“You brought this on yourself, Ames,” +Ward said slowly. “I did it to protect the interests +of Miss Trelango. Through the criminal +associates she met in your place here, she lost +hundreds of thousands of dollars worth in +jewels. I resolved, after hearing her decision +from the Marchese, to tell her myself of your +deliberate sacrifice of her to get possession of +these gems. From the first moment that I +learned of the double murder, I myself took up +the pursuit of the guilty parties with the commissioner +himself, and this is the result.”</p> + +<p>“Pardon.” Ward started at the first sound +of Dmitri’s voice, suave and evenly pitched, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> +if he had heard it before. “When was that first +moment, if one may ask, Mr. Ward?”</p> + +<p>Ward’s face set in deeper lines. Only Dmitri +and he himself of all those in the room knew +the menace behind the words. Until that instant +he had not known of the presence there +of one who had spoken to him over the wire at +daybreak that morning. Lorrie looked at the +banker sharply, waiting for his reply.</p> + +<p>“You don’t have to be annoyed by him, you +know, Mr. Ward. My orders are to bring them +both down to headquarters.”</p> + +<p>Ward lifted his hand.</p> + +<p>“I will be responsible, sergeant,” he said +coldly. “Wait below.”</p> + +<p>With the Marchese’s arm around her, Carlota +watched in amazement the man she +loved, the man who hated him, and Dmitri +last of all. He was smiling, courteous as ever, +thoroughly at ease and even enjoying the situation.</p> + +<p>“May I draw your attention, Mr. Ward,” +he remarked, motioning to the table where the +jewels lay. “See, they are there. I was bringing +them here to give them to their rightful owner, +Miss Trelango. It was best that she should not +see me, so I was about to transfer them to the +care of my friend, Mr. Ames. They are all +there, not one missing. Stay. There is one the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span> +genial sergeant overlooked, but it is not of that +set.” He reached in his pocket and drew out +his tobacco pouch. “For safe-keeping,” he +smiled, and produced the opal which Steccho +had saved for the golden-haired Maryna to +play with.</p> + +<p>Ward’s eyes stared at it fixedly, seeing instead +the room at Carlota’s apartment, the +shattered lamp, the scattered gems, and one +lithe, leaping figure in the dim oblong of light +from the open window.</p> + +<p>“I have seen that before,” murmured the +Marchese thoughtfully, “a beautiful gem.”</p> + +<p>“When I spoke to you on the telephone this +morning I asked you if you had lost a jewel?” +Dmitri’s tone took on a keener edge as he +leaned his hands upon the bare ebony table +between them, and addressed Ward. “I also +told you that I had just discovered a most +unfortunate accident which had cost Count +Jurka his life. I suggested, in view of certain +papers which I had found in the Count’s notebook +regarding—”</p> + +<p>“You are a criminal now in the eyes of the +law,” Ward cut in. “You know the value of a +criminal’s testimony.”</p> + +<p>“I am not speaking in court. I speak to my +friends,” said Dmitri gently. “And I am no +criminal, save at your own good pleasure, Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> +Ward. Would you prefer that I state the facts +here, or wait until we arrive at police headquarters +or possibly the grand jury?”</p> + +<p>Ward’s face seemed to turn gray as they +looked upon him.</p> + +<p>“You can’t prove a damned word.” His +eyes, bright and round, met Dmitri’s in sudden +challenge.</p> + +<p>“Can I not?” laughed the latter cheerily. +“Ah, my dear Mr. Ward, life is so very strange +and so amusing, and so unexpected, and yet it +is all one grand harmony. I show to you the +jewels, the rubies and pearls of the royal collection. +You know where I got them from, and +yet you can sit there and threaten me. You are +a fool, because I have the proof against you!”</p> + +<p>Ward rose heavily.</p> + +<p>“Call Lorrie,” he gasped. “Marchese, I demand +it.”</p> + +<p>“You will not call any one until you have +heard me out,” Dmitri said deliberately. “I +have the signed confession and all the correspondence +that passed between you and +Georges Yaranek.”</p> + +<p>The Marchese moved away from Carlota to +the table. She turned to Griffeth in relief, both +of them listening in silent amazement to +Dmitri’s story.</p> + +<p>“This man, Ogden Ward, is not the person<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> +he seems to be,” he said almost gayly, yet +with accusation. “He is not your silent, stern +capitalist and banker, your international pawn-broker +who can kill or save a nation by his +munificent charity. He is also of a most exquisite +artistic temperament, a nature which +responds to the richest and priceless in art +and beauty. He will have only the best, your +Mr. Ward. And this is known all over the +world by those who live upon loot for gold. It +was not enough that Count Jurka should recover +the missing crown jewels. He must convert +them into cash for use in the royalist +cause. And through his own researches he discovered +another on the same trail, the trail of +the Zarathustra ruby. This was Ogden Ward, +who wished to add it to his collection, together +with the Orient pearls and other rubies of the +set. Jurka had not been dispatched upon this +secret mission alone. Always, in such cases, +there are two set forth together, that one may +succeed if one should fail. Steccho had told me +this, and of the court chamberlain’s trusted +attendant and courier, Georges Yaranek. He +is very clever, but he is nervous. When he discovered +the two dead bodies he lost his nerve. +And he left behind two most important things, +the wallet of Jurka, and this letter in the dead +hand of my friend.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>From the inner hatband of his soft felt hat +he removed the crumpled paper Steccho’s +hand had groped for in death, and smoothing +it out, he read it gently, from a student comrade. +He had written briefly, fatalistically. +There could be nothing worse than all that +had gone before.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>Your mother is dead these five months, one of +many aged who died from starvation. Maryna is +lost. I have made careful inquiries, but can only +ascertain that she appealed to Jurka’s agent in +this district at the time of the demonstration +made by the royalist faction, and was taken with +other girls from Rigl and adjacent villages to the +mountain camps by the soldiers. None returned +alive.</p> +</div> + +<p>“Jurka tricked the boy,” Dmitri said +quietly. “He needed him in the work here and +promised in return full protection to his +mother and sister by the queen’s own secret +agents. This letter came to Steccho through +my hands the night he took the jewels. He +came to me and told what he had seen in the +Trelango apartment. Shall I speak in detail?” +He smiled most courteously at Ward.</p> + +<p>“What you say is immaterial. I was called +by Miss Trelango herself that night to complete +a business transaction. I had advanced +certain sums for her musical education and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> +training under certain conditions to which she +had agreed. She broke these conditions. It was +her own suggestion that she pay back in full +her obligations to me with the jewels.”</p> + +<p>“Which were worth, let us say, about fifty +times the amount you had advanced, eh?” +Dmitri supplemented. “Ah, you are a financier +and a very fine appraiser of values, Mr. Ward, +in jewels and—otherwise. With Miss Trelango’s +own testimony and my own as to what +my friend told me he saw and heard, there +might be a difference of opinion on the price +of rubies, yes?”</p> + +<p>“Dmitri, let me end this,” demanded Griffeth +hoarsely. “I can’t be quiet any longer.”</p> + +<p>“My boy, you are under arrest, and one call +from Mr. Ward will bring his friends below. +Not that I think he would call, but he might. +Let me finish my story first that all may be +clear to Mr. Ward, so he will not think we +are deceiving him in any way. I myself told +Steccho to give the jewels back to whomever he +had stolen them from and to leave the service +of Count Jurka. He said he could not afford to +jeopardize the safety and lives of his mother +and sister. This letter cleared up that point in +his mind. I know he had called at the Hotel +Dupont before coming to me and had left +word for Jurka that he had fulfilled his mission.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> +As you know, their two bodies were +found dead in the boy Steccho’s room. I myself +notified Mr. Ward of this as soon as I +found it out, did I not?”</p> + +<p>Ward’s face was a perfect blank. He stared +at Dmitri in silence.</p> + +<p>“I told Mr. Ward so that he would understand +what had happened, and requested him +to keep the entire matter silent with the police +until he heard from me.”</p> + +<p>“Why did you call Mr. Ward instead of the +police?” asked the Marchese sternly.</p> + +<p>“It was not a matter for the hands of the +city police. It was international in its import +and should have been kept absolutely secret, +but Mr. Ward thought otherwise. Doubtless +he did not believe me, that I held the proofs.”</p> + +<p>“What proofs?” Carlota’s hand closed over +that of the old Marchese, feeling his sympathy +for her.</p> + +<p>“The proofs of Mr. Ward’s private business +with the queen’s chamberlain. Doubtless they +were not criminal; mind, I do not say they +were, but I do not think that they were diplomatically +ethical, shall we say, Mr. Ward?”</p> + +<p>Ward waited, still silent and immobile, +never relaxing his gaze on the face of Dmitri.</p> + +<p>“So, and now we come to the unexpected +part, when, as I tell you often, Griffeth, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> +gods lean down and deal the cards themselves. +When I come out of my door to cross to where +Steccho lived, in the gray dawn I see a closed +limousine turn the corner of Third Avenue. +That is most unusual for the quarter where I +live, and I notice it particularly. Then I find +in my friend’s room the two dead bodies, both +warm. Jurka was strangled by the boy and +shot him in the side as they struggled. No +mystery there. But the jewels for which they +fought were gone, only one opal belonging to +Mr. Ward in Steccho’s coat pocket. I always +search pockets. They are so handy for hiding +things. And I find out first that whoever took +those jewels did not have time or sense to look +through the pockets of the dead men. Possibly +he was nervous. I did look and I found several +interesting things in Count Jurka’s possession, +his personal wallet and notebook, his keys and +a letter which he had doubtless written himself +to Mr. Ward before he left the hotel to +find Steccho. I have that letter; it escaped the +attention of the gentlemen of the police when +they searched me. Carlota, my old leather +music folder is there on the piano behind you, +if you please, my dear.” Wonderingly Carlota +gave the old brown flat bag to him. He produced +from it the gold-capped wallet of Jurka +and several letters and documents.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>“I was most fortunate in arriving at the +Dupont at an hour when vigilance is relaxed. +The number of the Count’s suite was on his +hotel key. I made my way up to that floor by +the back stairs, as you say, the servants’ way, +and I found myself alone in his rooms. I hurried +in my search of his locked trunk and desk, and +I found all I wanted. And suddenly there was +another key inserted in the door and Georges +Yaranek came in. I stepped back behind a +door and when he passed me I seized him. He +is very much the stronger and I am no fighter +at all, but I have to get the better of him just +the same, so I use tricks. It is always permissible, +is it not, Mr. Ward, when your cause is +just? I take and tie him up with the heavy +silk portière cords so he can do no damage, +and then I find all the jewels on him, all of +them. You see what a very clever precaution +that is to send two out on a secret mission, +and if one fails, the other he will carry it out. +Georges Yaranek is no servant. He is of the +Bulgarian secret service, a spy of the queen, +and when Jurka came to get the jewels from +Steccho, Yaranek came likewise lest the Count +come not back from that house next to mine. +I have his written and sworn confession of all +he did, so that Mr. Ward would not feel the +slightest doubt or suspicion of my word.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>“Where is Yaranek?” demanded Ward. +“Why was his written confession necessary? +Why did you not turn him over to the police?”</p> + +<p>“I have already told you this was an international +affair, not for the city police which is +very friendly to Mr. Ward, I believe. And +mind, I would say this, there is something we +all lose sight of in this day of upheavals. To +every man his country and its cause. What is +criminal to one is patriotism to another. Both +Jurka and Yaranek acted most honorably according +to their code. They are of the old régime, +the royalists; they kill, they make war, +they rob the poor, they do forever as they like, +you see, and it is not wrong to them. Jurka +was loyal to the old queen’s interests. She +ordered him to come here and find the missing +jewels. For what? Not for her to wear—one +wears no crowns in exile—but to convert into +ready money, into gold, for immediate use. +This is the hour of opportunity, mind, in +Europe. Your watcher of signs sees all sorts of +maneuvers not on battle-fields. The people +are so hungry and harassed and deceived that +they waver and do not know which side God +is on. A suave and promising tongue can sway +them in any direction that promises rest and +safety. So with gold at her command instead +of paper money, the exiled queen might seize<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span> +Bulgaria. And there was only one man who +would pay in cash the price of the royal rubies, +so Jurka dickered with him, once he struck +the right trail. That man was Ogden Ward. +Oh, I have the correspondence between you, +Mr. Ward,” as Ward rose threateningly. “It is +quite authentic, and nothing missing. Jurka +had to protect himself in case of discovery, and +doubtless saved the evidence in order to command +your full protection. Mr. Ward agreed +in writing to pay $750,000, in full for the five +pieces of the collection, including the Zarathustra +ruby, which is the finest pigeon-blood ruby +in the world, they claim. Of course, when he +found he could get them so very much cheaper, +he tried himself and failed.”</p> + +<p>“But on the face of it, it is absurd,” sneered +Ward. “Marchese, how could these men have +conveyed that amount in gold at this time to +Europe without discovery?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that was most cleverly provided for +also, by Mr. Ward,” exclaimed Dmitri jocularly. +“It was to have been shipped by Mr. +Ward’s own bankers as part of a consignment +for the relief of stricken, starving Bulgaria. +Count Jurka himself suggested this plan, since +he was here as one of the relief committee. It +was all really very touching.”</p> + +<p>“What if I say that I was aware of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span> +whole secret plot, and merely acted as I did to +betray these men, and save the rubies for +Carlota Trelango?”</p> + +<p>“It is very apt, but I am afraid it will not +pass,” sighed Dmitri. “The dates on these letters +show your dealings with Jurka and Yaranek +before you even knew that she owned +the rubies.”</p> + +<p>“And where is Yaranek?” asked Ward. +“Why was he not handed over to the police +by you? Why was it necessary for you to have +his sworn statement when he might give his +own testimony? Since you were accumulating +evidence against me, why not go the limit?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I will tell you, Mr. Ward, although +I do not think you will ever comprehend my +motives.” Dmitri sat lightly on the edge of +the table and smoked slowly, happily. “I am +a propagandist, but I only propagate my own +propaganda, see? I have my own creed of +right living and it is based upon our mutual +responsibility for other people’s welfare and +happiness. I believe in the right to live, but I +do not believe that any human group of people +has any right to govern others against +their will. So I fight in my own way for the +small, helpless races that get crushed in the +great stampede. And when I can I like to talk +this way. So when I get Georges Yaranek tied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> +and bound and I do not know what to do with +him, I talk to him. First, I trust him. I loosen +his hand and give him cigarettes so that we +may both talk while we smoke. And I prove +to him by all of Jurka’s letters how he has lied +to the boy Steccho and deceived him, how he +has played his own game and cheated everybody +else, even him, Yaranek. For look, Jurka +is ambitious. The queen is old and fond of +him. He wants to share the glory with no one, +and so he had planned to get rid of Yaranek +himself. Even while he was working with him +to recover the jewels for the royalist cause, as +emissary to the country from the queen to +study the relief methods for starving Bulgaria, +he was ready to report Yaranek to Washington +for the very crime he was committing himself, +collecting secret funds to promote a royal reactionary +uprising. Thus he could go back +alone and regret most profoundly that Yaranek, +through some indiscretion, had been +apprehended.”</p> + +<p>“Where is Yaranek?” asked Ward again.</p> + +<p>“He awaits me at a certain place.” Dmitri +smiled at him. “We were to have sailed together. +I am so very glad to announce his +entire conversion to my propaganda, Mr. +Ward. Of course, if you would rather we remained +and conveyed our testimony to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> +proper government authorities, we will do so. +We will not permit our plans to interfere with +your wishes.”</p> + +<p>Ward strode to the window and stared out +at the Square below, a conflict in his mind. +He had played and lost. Not alone the jewels, +but the girl he had wanted. All his life he had +purchased anything that was necessary to success. +He had weighed the issues of life itself in +terms of gold. When he turned from the window, +he asked, tersely: “What do you want?”</p> + +<p>“I want to go back free and unhampered to +my country,” returned Dmitri, “with Yaranek. +I want the rubies to be left unqualifiedly with +Miss Trelango—”</p> + +<p>“Dmitri, I do not want them!” Carlota +cried entreatingly. “They only bring misery. +You give them back for me to the people you +love. They are not mine or the queen’s. They +belong to the children who are starving.”</p> + +<p>“The heirs of to-morrow?” smiled Dmitri +whimsically. “I will gladly do so if it is your +wish. Mr. Ward, you are fond of rubies. You +are not interested as we are in international +aspirations, shall we say, or perhaps ideals. It +matters not one iota to you whether the money +for these jewels goes to the royalist cause or +to the feeding of those starving ones, those +little victims of diplomacy, shall we call it?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> +Will you buy these gems from Miss Trelango, +and I will most gladly convey the consignment +of gold to the little ones that are left alive.”</p> + +<p>“Is this your wish?” asked Ward, looking +at Carlota.</p> + +<p>Her eyes overflowed with tears. She could +hardly answer as she stood between the Marchese +and Griffeth.</p> + +<p>“I should love it more than anything,” she +told him. “The Marchese will attend to everything +for me if you are willing.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly in the doorway stood Maria, +alarmed and prepared to defend her charge at +any price. But Dmitri met her with one of his +low, courtly bows that soothed her pride.</p> + +<p>“Signora, you are just in time. Mr. Ward is +being the bountiful fairy godfather to us all. +He grants us each one what we like the best. +I have a rendezvous with a friend. Mr. Ward, +after you. Carlota, Griffeth, I salute love immortal!”</p> + +<p>Jauntily he gathered up the papers and +wallet into the old brown leather bag again, +and handed it to the Marchese.</p> + +<p>“Will you not personally hold these until I +have sailed, and then destroy them? I make +you our neutral receiver, yes? And will you +not also kindly place the jewels in safe-keeping +until Mr. Ward has paid for them?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>Ward passed without a word down the winding +staircase ahead of him, without a backward +glance at the four left in the old studio. +Carlota turned to Griffeth’s close embrace, +weeping in deep soft sobs of relief, and the +Marchese smiled at Maria.</p> + +<p>“The leaves lie thick in the Square. They +are sweeping them up to burn. Will you walk +with me, Maria, and remember Vallombrosa +while these children follow their own path of +gold? Then we will take up the business of life +once more, and put the rubies and papers in +safety deposit, but for now—”</p> + +<p>He held the door open for her, and they +passed down the way that Ward had gone. +Carlota lifted her head from Griffeth’s +shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Heirs of to-morrow, he said,” she whispered.</p> + +<p>He kissed her lips. There seemed in their +love almost a symbol of the fulfillment of +years of war, of tears and bloodshed and oppression +and intolerance, in what would be the +dawn of a new world to those who were indeed +the heirs of to-morrow.</p> + +<p class="center">THE END</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="center"><span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press</span><br> +CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS<br> +U . S . A</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote"> +<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> + +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> + +<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> +</div></div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75383 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75383-h/images/cover.jpg b/75383-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd186ab --- /dev/null +++ b/75383-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75383-h/images/coversmall.jpg b/75383-h/images/coversmall.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f456668 --- /dev/null +++ b/75383-h/images/coversmall.jpg diff --git a/75383-h/images/dots.jpg b/75383-h/images/dots.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ea2079e --- /dev/null +++ b/75383-h/images/dots.jpg diff --git a/75383-h/images/i_title.jpg b/75383-h/images/i_title.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..59ffbb3 --- /dev/null +++ b/75383-h/images/i_title.jpg diff --git a/75383-h/images/i_titlelogo.jpg b/75383-h/images/i_titlelogo.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a38e46f --- /dev/null +++ b/75383-h/images/i_titlelogo.jpg |
