The Place of Honeymoons
electric bulb in the car. She rarely turned it on, but she did to-night.
She gazed into the little mirror; and utter weariness looked back from out
the most beautiful, blue, Irish eyes in the world. She rubbed her fingers
carefully up and down the faint perpendicular wrinkle above her nose. It
was always there on nights like this. How she longed for the season to
end! She would fly away to the lakes, the beautiful, heavenly tinted
lakes, the bare restful mountains, and the clover lawns spreading under
brave old trees; she would walk along the vineyard paths, and loiter under
the fig-trees, far, far away from the world, its clamor, its fickleness,
its rasping jealousies. Some day she would have enough; and then, good-by
to all the clatter, the evil-smelling stages, the impossible people with
whom she was associated. She would sing only to those she loved.
The glamour of the life had long ago passed; she sang on because she had
acquired costly habits, because she was fond of beautiful things, and
above all, because she loved to sing. She had as many moods as a bird, as
many sides as nature. A flash of sunshine called to her voice; the beads
of water, trembling upon the blades of grass after a summer shower,
brought a song to her lips. Hers was a God-given voice, and training had
added to it nothing but confidence. True, she could act; she had been told
by many a great impressario that histrionically she had no peer in grand
opera. But the knowledge gave her no thrill of delight. To her it was the
sum of a tremendous physical struggle.
She shut off the light and closed her eyes. She reclined against the
cushion once more, striving not to think. Once, her hands shut tightly.
Never, never, never! She pressed down the burning thoughts by recalling
the bright scenes at the ambassador's, the real generous applause that had
followed her two songs. Ah, how that man Paderewski played! They two had
cost the ambassador eight thousand francs. Fame and fortune! Fortune she
could understand; but fame! What was it? Upon a time she believed she had
known what fame was; but that had been when she was striving for it. A
glowing article in a newspaper, a portrait in a magazine, rows upon rows
of curious eyes and a patter of hands upon hands; that was all; and for
this she had given the best of her life, and she was only twenty-five.
The limousine stopped at last. The man in the Bavarian hat saw her alight.
His car turned and disappeared. It had taken him a week to discover where
she lived. His lodgings were on the other side of the Seine. After
reaching them he gave crisp orders to the driver, who set his machine off
at top speed. The man in the Bavarian hat entered his room and lighted the
gas. The room was bare and cheaply furnished. He took off his coat but
retained his hat, pulling it down still farther over his eyes. His face
was always in shadow. A round chin, two full red lips, scantily covered by
a blond mustache were all that could be seen. He began to walk the floor
impatiently, stopping and listening whenever he heard a sound. He waited
less than an hour for the return of the car. It brought two men. They were
well-dressed, smoothly-shaven, with keen eyes and intelligent faces. Their
host, who had never seen either of his guests before, carelessly waved his
hand toward the table where there were two chairs. He himself took his
stand by the window and looked out as he talked. In another hour the room
was dark and the street deserted.
In the meantime the prima donna gave a sigh of relief. She was home. It
was nearly two o'clock. She would sleep till noon, and Saturday and Sunday
would be hers. She went up the stairs instead of taking the lift, and
though the hall was dark, she knew her way. She unlocked the door of the
apartment and entered, swinging the door behind her. As the act was
mechanical, her thoughts being otherwise engaged, she did not notice that
the lock failed to click. The ferrule of a cane had prevented that.
She flung her wraps on the divan and put the roses in an empty bowl. The
door opened softly, without noise. Next, she stopped before the mirror
over the mantel, touched her hair lightly, detached the tiara of emeralds
... and became as inanimate as marble. She saw another face. She never
knew how long the interval of silence was. She turned slowly.
"Yes, it is I!" said the man.
Instantly she turned again to the mantel and picked up a
magazine-revolver. She leveled it at him.
"Leave this room, or I will shoot."
Courtlandt advanced toward her slowly. "Do so," he said. "I should much
prefer a bullet to that look."
"I am in earnest." She was very white, but her hand was steady.
He continued to advance. There followed a crash. The smell of burning
powder filled the room. The Burmese gong clanged shrilly and whirled
wildly. Courtlandt felt his hair stir in terror.
"You must hate me indeed," he said quietly, as the sense of terror died
away. He folded his arms. "Try again; there ought to be half a dozen
bullets left. No? Then, good-by!" He left the apartment without another
word or look, and as the door closed behind him there was a kind of
finality in the clicking of the latch.
The revolver clattered to the floor, and the woman who had fired it leaned
heavily against the mantel, covering her eyes.
"Nora, Nora!" cried a startled voice from a bedroom adjoining. "What has
happened? _Mon Dieu_, what is it?" A pretty, sleepy-eyed young woman, in a
night-dress, rushed into the room. She flung her arms about the singer.
"Nora, my dear, my dear!"
"He forced his way in. I thought to frighten him. It went off
accidentally. Oh, Celeste, Celeste, I might have killed him!"
The other drew her head down on her shoulder, and listened. She could hear
voices in the lower hall, a shout of warning, a patter of steps; then the
hall door slammed. After that, silence, save for the faint mellowing
vibrations of the Burmese gong.
CHAPTER V
CAPTIVE OR RUNAWAY
At the age of twenty-six Donald Abbott had become a prosperous and
distinguished painter in water-colors. His work was individual, and at the
same time it was delicate and charming. One saw his Italian landscapes as
through a filmy gauze: the almond blossoms of Sicily, the rose-laden walls
of Florence, the vineyards of Chianti, the poppy-glowing Campagna out of
Rome. His Italian lakes had brought him fame. He knew very little of the
grind and hunger that attended the careers of his whilom associates. His
father had left him some valuable patents--wash-tubs, carpet-cleaners, and
other labor-saving devices--and the royalties from these were quite
sufficient to keep him pleasantly housed. When he referred to his father
(of whom he had been very fond) it was as an inventor. Of what, he rarely
told. In America it was all right; but over here, where these inventions
were unknown, a wash-tub had a peculiar significance: that a man should be
found in his money through its services left persons in doubt as to his
genealogical tree, which, as a matter of fact, was a very good one. As a
boy his schoolmates had dubbed him "The Sweep" and "Suds," and it was only
human that he should wish to forget.
His earnings (not inconsiderable, for tourists found much to admire in
both the pictures and the artist) he spent in gratifying his mild
extravagances. So there were no lines in his handsome, boyish, beardless
face; and his eyes were unusually clear and happy. Perhaps once or twice,
since his majority, he had returned to America to prove that he was not an
expatriate, though certainly he was one, the only tie existing between him
and his native land being the bankers who regularly honored his drafts.
And who shall condemn him for preferring Italy to the desolate center of
New York state, where good servants and good weather are as rare as are
flawless emeralds?
Half after three, on Wednesday afternoon, Abbott stared moodily at the
weather-tarnished group by Dalou in the Luxembourg gardens--the _Triumph
of Silenus_. His gaze was deceptive, for the rollicking old bibulous
scoundrel had not stirred his critical sense nor impressed the delicate
films of thought. He was looking through the bronze, into the far-away
things. He sat on his own folding stool, which he had brought along from
his winter studio hard by in the old Boul' Miche'. He had arrived early
that morning, all the way from Como, to find a thunderbolt driven in at
his feet. Across his knees fluttered an open newspaper, the Paris edition
of the New York _Herald_. All that kept it from blowing away was the tense
if sprawling fingers of his right hand; his left hung limply at his side.
It was not possible. Such things did not happen these unromantic days to
musical celebrities. She had written that on Monday night she would sing
in _La Boheme_ and on Wednesday, _Faust_. She had since vanished, vanished
as completely as though she had taken wings and flown away. It was unreal.
She had left the apartment in the Avenue de Wagram on Saturday afternoon,
and nothing had been seen or heard of her since. At the last moment they
had had to find a substitute for her part in the Puccini opera. The maid
testified that her mistress had gone on an errand of mercy. She had not
mentioned where, but she had said that she would return in time to dress
for dinner, which proved conclusively that something out of the ordinary
had befallen her.
The automobile that had carried her away had not been her own, and the
chauffeur was unknown. None of the directors at the Opera had been
notified of any change in the singer's plans. She had disappeared, and
they were deeply concerned. Singers were generally erratic, full of sudden
indispositions, unaccountable whims; but the Signorina da Toscana was one
in a thousand. She never broke an engagement. If she was ill she said so
at once; she never left them in doubt until the last moment. Indecision
was not one of her characteristics. She was as reliable as the sun. If the
directors did not hear definitely from her by noon to-day, they would have
to find another Marguerite.
The police began to move, and they stirred up some curious bits of
information. A man had tried to bribe the singer's chauffeur, while she
was singing at the Austrian ambassador's. The chauffeur was able to
describe the stranger with some accuracy. Then came the bewildering
episode in the apartment: the pistol-shot, the flight of the man, the
astonished concierge to whom the beautiful American would offer no
explanations. The man (who tallied with the description given by the
chauffeur) had obtained entrance under false representations. He claimed
to be an emissary with important instructions from the Opera. There was
nothing unusual in this; messengers came at all hours, and seldom the same
one twice; so the concierge's suspicions had not been aroused. Another
item. A tall handsome Italian had called at eleven o'clock Saturday
morning, but the signorina had sent down word that she could not see him.
The maid recalled that her mistress had intended to dine that night with
the Italian gentleman. His name she did not know, having been with the
signorina but two weeks.
Celeste Fournier, the celebrated young pianist and composer, who shared
the apartment with the missing prima donna, stated that she hadn't the
slightest idea where her friend was. She was certain that misfortune had
overtaken her in some inexplicable manner. To implicate the Italian was
out of the question. He was well-known to them both. He had arrived again
at seven, Saturday, and was very much surprised that the signorina had not
yet returned. He had waited till nine, when he left, greatly disappointed.
He was the Barone di Monte-Verdi in Calabria, formerly military attache at