The Place of Honeymoons
there had been some sign of anger, of contempt, anything but this
incredible tranquillity against which she longed to cry out! She was too
wrathful to notice the quickening throb of the veins on his temples.
"Mademoiselle, I find no case against Monsieur Courtlandt, unless you wish
to appear against him for his forcible entrance to your apartment." Nora
shook her head. The chief of police stroked his mustache to hide the
fleeting smile. A peculiar case, the like of which had never before come
under his scrutiny! "Circumstantial evidence, we know, points to him; but
we have also an alibi which is incontestable. We must look elsewhere for
your abductors. Think; have you not some enemy? Is there no one who might
wish you worry and inconvenience? Are your associates all loyal to you? Is
there any jealousy?"
"No, none at all, Monsieur," quickly and decidedly.
"In my opinion, then, the whole affair is a hoax, perpetrated to vex and
annoy you. The old man who employed this chauffeur may not have been old.
I have looked upon all sides of the affair, and it begins to look like a
practical joke, Mademoiselle."
"Ah!" angrily. "And am I to have no redress? Think of the misery I have
gone through, the suspense! My voice is gone. I shall not be able to sing
again for months. Is it your suggestion that I drop the investigation?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle, for it does not look as if we could get anywhere with
it. If you insist, I will hold Monsieur Courtlandt; but I warn you the
magistrate would not hesitate to dismiss the case instantly. Monsieur
Courtlandt arrived in Marseilles Thursday morning; he reached Paris Friday
morning. Since arriving in Paris he has fully accounted for his time. It
is impossible that he could have arranged for the abduction. Still, if you
say, I can hold him for entering your apartment."
"That would be but a farce." Nora rose. "Monsieur, permit me to wish you
good day. For my part, I shall pursue this matter to the end. I believe
this gentleman guilty, and I shall do my best to prove it. I am a woman,
and all alone. When a man has powerful friends, it is not difficult to
build an alibi."
"That is a reflection upon my word, Mademoiselle," quietly interposed the
minister.
"Monsieur has been imposed upon." Nora walked to the door.
"Wait a moment, Mademoiselle," said the prefect. "Why do you insist upon
prosecuting him for something of which he is guiltless, when you could
have him held for something of which he is really guilty?"
"The one is trivial; the other is a serious outrage. Good morning." The
attendant closed the door behind her.
"A very determined young woman," mused the chief of police.
"Exceedingly," agreed the minister.
Courtlandt got up wearily. But the chief motioned him to be reseated.
"I do not say that I dare not pursue my investigations; but now that
mademoiselle is safely returned, I prefer not to."
"May I ask who made this request?" asked Courtlandt.
"Request? Yes, Monsieur, it was a request not to proceed further."
"From where?"
"As to that, you will have to consult the head of the state. I am not at
liberty to make the disclosure."
The minister leaned forward eagerly. "Then there is a political side to
it?"
"There would be if everything had not turned out so fortunately."
"I believe that I understand now," said Courtlandt, his face hardening.
Strange, he had not thought of it before. His skepticism had blinded him
to all but one angle. "Your advice to drop the matter is excellent."
The chief of police elevated his brows interrogatively.
"For I presume," continued Courtlandt, rising, "that Mademoiselle's
abductor is by this time safely across the frontier."
CHAPTER VII
BATTLING JIMMIE
There is a heavenly terrace, flanked by marvelous trees. To the left, far
down below, is a curving, dark-shaded, turquoise body of water called
Lecco; to the right there lies the queen of lakes, the crown of Italy, a
corn-flower sapphire known as Como. Over and about it--this terrace--poets
have raved and tousled their neglected locks in vain to find the perfect
phrasing; novelists have come and gone and have carried away peace and
inspiration; and painters have painted it from a thousand points of view,
and perhaps are painting it from another thousand this very minute. It is
the Place of Honeymoons. Rich lovers come and idle there; and lovers of
modest means rush up to it and down from it to catch the next steamer to
Menaggio. Eros was not born in Greece: of all barren mountains,
unstirring, Hymettus, or Olympus, or whatever they called it in the days
of the junketing gods, is completest. No; Venus went a-touring and abode a
while upon this same gracious spot, once dear to Pliny the younger.
Between the blessed ledge and the towering mountains over the way, rolls a
small valley, caressed on either side by the lakes. There are flower
gardens, from which in summer rises the spicy perfume of lavender; there
are rows upon rows of grape-vines, terraced downward; there are purple
figs and white and ruby mulberries. Around and about, rising sheer from
the waters, wherever the eye may rove, heaven-touching, salmon-tinted
mountains abound, with scarfs of filmy cloud aslant their rugged profiles,
and beauty-patches of snow. And everywhere the dark and brooding cypress,
the copper beech, the green pine accentuate the pink and blue and white
stucco of the villas, the rich and the humble.
Behind the terrace is a promontory, three or four hundred feet above the
waters. Upon the crest is a cultivated forest of all known evergreens.
There are ten miles of cool and fragrant paths, well trodden by the
devotees of Eros. The call of love is heard here; the echoes to-day
reverberate with the impassioned declarations of yesterday. The
Englishman's reserve melts, the American forgets his coupons, the German
puts his arm around the robust waist of his frau or fraeulein. (This is
nothing for him; he does it unconcernedly up and down the great urban
highways of the world.)
Again, between the terrace ledge and the forest lies a square of velvet
green, abounding in four-leaf clover. _Buona fortuna!_ In the center there
is a fountain. The water tinkles in drops. One hears its soft music at all
times. Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables; a monster oak protects
one from the sun. If one (or two) lingers over tea and cakes, one may
witness the fiery lances of the setting sun burn across one arm of water
while the silver spars of the rising moon shimmer across the other. Nature
is whole-souled here; she gives often and freely and all she has.
Seated on one of the rustic benches, his white tennis shoes resting
against the lower iron of the railing, a Bavarian dachel snoozing
comfortably across his knees, was a man of fifty. He was broad of
shoulder, deep of chest, and clean-shaven. He had laid aside his Panama
hat, and his hair was clipped closely, and was pleasantly and honorably
sprinkled with gray. His face was broad and tanned; the nose was tilted,
and the wide mouth was both kindly and humorous. One knew, from the tint
of his blue eyes and the quirk of his lips, that when he spoke there would
be a bit of brogue. He was James Harrigan, one time celebrated in the ring
for his gameness, his squareness, his endurance; "Battling Jimmie"
Harrigan, who, when he encountered his first knock-out, retired from the
ring. He had to his credit sixty-one battles, of which he had easily won
forty. He had been outpointed in some and had broken even in others; but
only once had he been "railroaded into dreamland," to use the parlance of
the game. That was enough. He understood. Youth would be served, and he
was no longer young. He had, unlike the many in his peculiar service,
lived cleanly and with wisdom and foresight: he had saved both his money
and his health. To-day he was at peace with the world, with three sound
appetites the day and the wherewithal to gratify them.
True, he often dreamed of the old days, the roped square, the lights, the
haze of tobacco smoke, the white patches surrounding, all of a certain
expectant tilt, the reporters scribbling on the deal tables under the very
posts, the cheers as he took his corner and scraped his shoes in the
powdered resin, the padded gloves thrown down in the center of the canvas
which was already scarred and soiled by the preliminaries. But never,
never again; if only for the little woman's sake. Only when the game was
done did he learn with what terror and dread she had waited for his return
on fighting nights.
To-day "Battling Jimmie" was forgotten by the public, and he was happy in
the seclusion of this forgetfulness. A new and strange career had opened
up before him: he was the father of the most beautiful prima donna in the
operatic world, and, difficult as the task was, he did his best to live up
to it. It was hard not to offer to shake hands when he was presented to a
princess or a duchess; it was hard to remember when to change the studs in
his shirt; and a white cravat was the terror of his nights, for his
fingers, broad and stubby and powerful, had not been trained to the
delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where
the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot,
but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the
puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was
bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally
despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant
inclination to play hooky. One thing he rebelled against openly, and with
such firmness that the women did not press him too strongly for fear of a
general revolt. On no occasion, however impressive, would he wear a silk
hat. Christmas and birthdays invariably called forth the gift of a silk
hat, for the women trusted that they could overcome resistance by
persistence. He never said anything, but it was noticed that the hotel
porter, or the gardener, or whatever masculine head (save his own) was
available, came forth resplendent on feast-days and Sundays.
Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak,
was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the
pages of Bagot's _Italian Lakes_, and he wasn't making much headway. He
was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and
manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and
faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly
cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the
corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome.
Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of
folding up an easel and a camp-stool.
The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The
villa's omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines.
Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of
the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his
chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox.
From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no
words,--half a dozen bars from _Martha_; but every delightful note went
deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog.
The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The artist
scowled at the Italian.
"Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!"
The dog struggled in Harrigan's hands and tore himself loose. He went
clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the
doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a
lover as any, and far more favored.