The Place of Honeymoons
folk-lore for comparisons, until there wasn't a goddess left on Olympus or
on Northland's icy capes; and when these images became a little shop-worn,
referred to certain masterpieces of the old fellows who had left nothing
more to be said in oils. Nora enjoyed it all.
She had not been happy in the selection of her stage name; but she had
chosen Eleonora da Toscana because she believed there was good luck in it.
Once, long before the world knew of her, she had returned home from Italy
unexpectedly. "Molly, here's Nora, from Tuscany!" her delighted father had
cried: who at that time had a nebulous idea that Tuscany was somewhere in
Ireland because it had a Celtic ring to it. Being filled with love of
Italy, its tongue, its history, its physical beauty, she naively
translated "Nora from Tuscany" into Italian, and declared that when she
went upon the stage she would be known by that name. There had been some
smiling over the pseudonym; but Nora was Irish enough to cling to it. By
and by the great music-loving public ceased to concern itself about her
name; it was her fresh beauty and her wonderful voice they craved to see
and hear. Kings and queens, emperors and empresses, princes and
princesses,--what is called royalty and nobility in the newspapers freely
gave her homage. Quite a rise in the world for a little girl who had once
lived in a shabby apartment in New York and run barefooted on the wet
asphalts, summer nights!
But Nora was not recalling the happy scenes of her childhood; indeed, no;
she was still threatening Paris. Once there, she would not lack for
reprisals. To have played on her pity! To have made a lure of her tender
concern for the unfortunate! Never would she forgive such baseness. And
only a little while ago she had been as happy as the nightingale to which
they compared her. Never had she wronged any one; she had been kindness
and thoughtfulness to all with whom she had come in contact. But from now
on!... Her fingers tightened round the bars. She might have posed as Dido
when she learned that the noble AEneas was dead. War, war; woe to the moths
who fluttered about her head hereafter!
Ah, but had she been happy? Her hands slid down the bars. Her expression
changed. The mouth drooped, the eagle-light in her eyes dimmed. From out
the bright morning, somewhere, had come weariness, and with this came
weakness, and finally, tears.
She heard the key turn in the lock. They had never come so early before.
She was astonished to see that her jailer did not close the door as usual.
He put down the breakfast tray on the table. There was tea and toast and
fruit.
"Mademoiselle, there has been a terrible mistake," said the man humbly.
"Ah! So you have found that out?" she cried.
"Yes. You are not the person for whom this room was intended." Which was
half a truth and perfectly true, paradoxical as it may seem. "Eat your
breakfast in peace. You are free, Mademoiselle."
"Free? You will not hinder me if I walk through that door?"
"No, Mademoiselle. On the contrary, I shall be very glad, and so will my
brother, who guards you at night. I repeat, there has been a frightful
mistake. Monsieur Champeaux ..."
"Monsieur Champeaux!" Nora was bewildered. She had never heard this name
before.
"He calls himself that," was the diplomatic answer.
All Nora's suspicions took firm ground again. "Will you describe this
Monsieur Champeaux to me?" asked the actress coming into life.
"He is short, dark, and old, Mademoiselle."
"Rather is he not tall, blond, and young?" ironically.
The jailer concealed what annoyance he felt. In his way he was just as
capable an actor as she was. The accuracy of her description startled him;
for the affair had been carried out so adroitly that he had been positive
that until her real captor appeared she would be totally in the dark
regarding his identity. And here she had hit it off in less than a dozen
words. Oh, well; it did not matter now. She might try to make it
unpleasant for his employer, but he doubted the ultimate success of her
attempts. However, the matter was at an end as far as he was concerned.
"Have you thought what this means? It is abduction. It is a crime you have
committed, punishable by long imprisonment."
"I have been Mademoiselle's jailer, not her abductor. And when one is poor
and in need of money!" He shrugged.
"I will give you a thousand francs for the name and address of the man who
instigated this outrage."
Ah, he thought: then she wasn't so sure? "I told you the name,
Mademoiselle. As for his address, I dare not give it, not for ten thousand
francs. Besides, I have said that there has been a mistake."
"For whom have I been mistaken?"
"Who but Monsieur Champeaux's wife, Mademoiselle, who is not in her right
mind?" with inimitable sadness.
"Very well," said Nora. "You say that I am free. That is all I want,
freedom."
"In twenty minutes the electric tram leaves for Paris. You will recall,
Mademoiselle," humbly, "that we have taken nothing belonging to you. You
have your purse and hat and cloak. The struggle was most unfortunate. But,
think, Mademoiselle, think; we thought you to be insane!"
"Permit me to doubt that! And you are not afraid to let me go?"
"Not in the least, Mademoiselle. A mistake has been made, and in telling
you to go at once, we do our best to rectify this mistake. It is only five
minutes to the tram. A carriage is at the door. Will Mademoiselle be
pleased to remember that we have treated her with the utmost courtesy?"
"I shall remember everything," ominously.
"Very good, Mademoiselle. You will be in Paris before nine." With this he
bowed and backed out of the room as though Nora had suddenly made a
distinct ascension in the scale of importance.
"Wait!" she called.
His face appeared in the doorway again.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Since this morning, Mademoiselle."
"That is all."
Free! Her veins tingled with strange exultation. He had lost his courage
and had become afraid of the consequences. Free! Monsieur Champeaux
indeed! Cowardice was a new development in his character. He had been
afraid to come. She drank the tea, but did not touch the toast or fruit.
There would be time enough for breakfast when she arrived in Paris. Her
hands trembled violently as she pinned on her hat, and she was not greatly
concerned as to the angle. She snatched up her purse and cloak, and sped
out into the street. A phaeton awaited her.
"The tram," she said.
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"And go quickly." She would not feel safe until she was in the tram.
A face appeared at one of the windows. As the vehicle turned the corner,
the face vanished; and perhaps that particular visage disappeared forever.
A gray wig came off, the little gray side-whiskers, the bushy grey
eyebrows, revealing a clever face, not more than thirty, cunning, but
humorously cunning and anything but scoundrelly. The painted scar aslant
the nose was also obliterated. With haste the man thrust the evidences of
disguise into a traveling-bag, ran here and there through the rooms, all
bare and unfurnished save the one with the bars and the kitchen, which
contained two cots and some cooking utensils. Nothing of importance had
been left behind. He locked the door and ran all the way to the Place
d'Armes, catching the tram to Paris by a fraction of a minute.
All very well done. She would be in Paris before the police made any
definite move. The one thing that disturbed him was the thought of the
blockhead of a chauffeur, who had got drunk before his return from
Versailles. If he talked; well, he could say nothing beyond the fact that
he had deposited the singer at the house as directed. He knew positively
nothing.
The man laughed softly. A thousand francs apiece for him and Antoine, and
no possible chance of being discovered. Let the police find the house in
Versailles; let them trace whatever paths they found; the agent would tell
them, and honestly, that an aged man had rented the house for a month and
had paid him in advance. What more could the agent say? Only one bit of
puzzlement: why hadn't the blond stranger appeared? Who was he, in truth,
and what had been his game? All this waiting and wondering, and then a
curt telegram of the night before, saying, "Release her." So much the
better. What his employer's motives were did not interest him half so much
as the fact that he had a thousand francs in his pocket, and that all
element of danger had been done away with. True, the singer herself would
move heaven and earth to find out who had been back of the abduction. Let
her make her accusations. He was out of it.
He glanced toward the forward part of the tram. There she sat, staring at
the white road ahead. A young Frenchman sat near her, curling his mustache
desperately. So beautiful and all alone! At length he spoke to her. She
whirled upon him so suddenly that his hat fell off his head and rolled at
the feet of the onlooker.
"Your hat, Monsieur?" he said gravely, returning it.
Nora laughed maliciously. The author of the abortive flirtation fled down
to the body of the tram.
And now there was no one on top but Nora and her erstwhile jailer, whom
she did not recognize in the least.
* * * * *
"Mademoiselle," said the great policeman soberly, "this is a grave
accusation to make."
"I make it, nevertheless," replied Nora. She sat stiffly in her chair, her
face colorless, dark circles under her eyes. She never looked toward
Courtlandt.
"But Monsieur Courtlandt has offered an alibi such as we can not ignore.
More than that, his integrity is vouched for by the gentleman at his side,
whom doubtless Mademoiselle recognizes."
Nora eyed the great man doubtfully.
"What is the gentleman to you?" she was interrogated.
"Absolutely nothing," contemptuously.
The minister inspected his rings.
"He has annoyed me at various times," continued Nora; "that is all. And
his actions on Friday night warrant every suspicion I have entertained
against him."
The chief of police turned toward the bandaged chauffeur. "You recognize
the gentleman?"
"No, Monsieur, I never saw him before. It was an old man who engaged me."
"Go on."
"He said that Mademoiselle's old teacher was very ill and asked for
assistance. I left Mademoiselle at the house and drove away. I was hired
from the garage. That is the truth, Monsieur."
Nora smiled disbelievingly. Doubtless he had been paid well for that lie.
"And you?" asked the chief of Nora's chauffeur.
"He is certainly the gentleman, Monsieur, who attempted to bribe me."
"That is true," said Courtlandt with utmost calmness.
"Mademoiselle, if Monsieur Courtlandt wished, he could accuse you of
attempting to shoot him."
"It was an accident. His sudden appearance in my apartment frightened me.
Besides, I believe a woman who lives comparatively alone has a legal and
moral right to protect herself from such unwarrantable intrusions. I wish
him no physical injury, but I am determined to be annoyed by him no
longer."
The minister's eyes sought Courtlandt's face obliquely. Strange young man,
he thought. From the expression of his face he might have been a spectator
rather than the person most vitally concerned in this little scene. And
what a pair they made!
"Monsieur Courtlandt, you will give me your word of honor not to annoy
Mademoiselle again?"
"I promise never to annoy her again."
For the briefest moment the blazing blue eyes clashed with the calm brown
ones. The latter were first to deviate from the line. It was not agreeable
to look into a pair of eyes burning with the hate of one's self. Perhaps
this conflagration was intensified by the placidity of his gaze. If only