The Sign of the Seven Sins
horses, his fine friends, and all the rest of it. But all the people
know Ben Keppel, of Pittsburg. Even if I belonged to the most swagger
of the clubs and mixed in good society,--among lords and ladies of the
aristocracy, I mean,--I’d still be the same. I couldn’t alter myself as
some of ’em try to and do.”
We laughed. The old man was so blunt that one could not help admiring
him. He had the reputation of being niggardly in certain matters,
especially regarding Gerald’s allowance, but, as Ulrica remarked, there
were no doubt plenty of people who would be anxious to lend money to
the millionaire’s heir upon post-obits, so that after all it didn’t
much matter. If inclined to be economical in one or two directions, he
certainly kept a remarkably good table, but although there were choice
wines for us, he drank only water.
When, with Gerald, he joined us in the great drawing-room, he seated
himself near me and suddenly said:
“I don’t know, Miss Rosselli, whether you would like to remain here
and gossip or whether you’d like to stroll round the place. You are a
woman, and there may be something to interest you in it.”
“I shall be delighted, I’m sure,” I said, and together we went forth to
wander about the great mansion which all the world on the Riviera knows
as the home of the renowned Steel King.
He showed me his library, the boudoirs which were never occupied,
the gallery of modern French paintings, the Indian tea-room, and the
great conservatory, whence we walked out upon the terrace and looked
down upon the lights of the gay winter city lying at our feet, and
that flash of white brilliance which ever and anon shoots across the
tranquil sea and marks the dangerous headland at Antibes.
The night was lovely--one of those dry, bright, perfect nights which
occur so often on the Riviera in January. At sundown the air is always
damp and treacherous, but when darkness falls it is no longer dangerous
even to those with the most delicate constitutions.
“How beautiful!” I ejaculated, standing at his side and watching the
great white moon slowly rising from the sea. “What a fairyland!”
“Yes. It is beautiful. The Riviera is, I believe, the fairest spot
that God has created on this earth,” and then he sighed as though
world-weary.
Presently, when we had been chatting a few minutes, he suggested that
we should re-enter the house, as he feared that I, being in décolleté,
might catch a chill.
“I have a hobby,” he said, “the only thing which prevents me from
becoming absolutely melancholy. Would you care to see it?”
“Oh, do show it to me,” I said, at once interested.
“Then come with me,” he exclaimed, and led me through two long passages
to a door which he unlocked with a tiny master-key upon his chain.
“This is my private domain,” he laughed. “No one is allowed here, so
you must consider yourself very privileged.”
“That I certainly do,” I responded, and as he entered he switched on
the electric light, displaying to my astonished gaze a large place
fitted up as a workshop with lathes, tools, wheels, straps, and all
sorts of mechanical contrivances.
“This room is a secret,” he said with a smile. “If the fine people who
sometimes patronize me with visits thought that I actually worked here
they’d be horrified.”
“Then do you actually work?” I inquired, surprised.
“Certainly. Having nothing otherwise to occupy my time when I severed
myself from the works, I took to turning. I was a turner by trade years
ago, you know.”
I looked at him in wonderment. People had said he was eccentric,
and this was evidently one of his eccentricities. He had secretly
established a great workshop within that princely mansion.
“Would you like to see how I can work?” he asked, noticing my look of
wonder. “Well, watch--excuse me,” and he threw off his jacket, and
having raised a lever which set one of the lathes at work he seated
himself at it, selected a piece of ivory, and placed it in position.
“Now,” he laughed, looking towards me, “what shall I make you?
Ah, I know, an object useful to all you ladies is a box for your
powder-puff--eh?”
“You seem to be fully aware of feminine mysteries, Mr. Keppel,” I
laughed.
“Well, you see, I was married once,” he answered. “But in those days my
poor Mary didn’t want face-powder, bless her!”
And at that instant his keen chisel cut deeply into the revolving
ivory with a harsh, sawing sound that rendered further conversation
impossible.
I stood behind watching him. His grand old head was bent keenly over
his work as he hollowed out the box to the desired depth, carefully
gauged it, finished it, and quickly turned the lid until it fitted
with precision and exactness. Then he rubbed it down, polished it in
several ways, and at last handed it to me complete, saying,--
“There is a little souvenir, Miss Rosselli, of your first visit to me.”
“Thank you ever so much,” I answered, taking it and examining it
curiously. Truly he was a skilled workman, this man whose colossal
wealth was remarkable even among the many millionaires in the United
States.
“I ask only one favor,” he said, as we passed out and he locked the
door of his workshop behind us,--“that you will tell no one of my
hobby--that I have returned to my own trade. For Gerald’s sake I am
compelled to keep up an appearance, and some of his friends would sneer
if they knew that his father still worked and earned money in his odd
moments.”
“Do you earn money?” I inquired, amazed.
“Certainly. A firm in Bond Street, London, buy all my ivory work, only
they are not, of course, aware that it comes from me. It wouldn’t do,
you know. My work, you see, provides me with a little pocket-money. It
has done so ever since I left the factory,” he added simply.
“I promise you, Mr. Keppel, that I’ll tell no one if you wish it to
remain a secret. I had no idea that you actually sold your turnings.”
“You don’t blame me, surely?” he said.
“Certainly not,” I answered.
It seems, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his
great houses in New York and Pittsburg, his shooting-box in Scotland,
his yacht, acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa
on the Riviera, should toil at turning in order to earn a pound or two
a week as pocket-money.
“When I worked as a turner in England in the old days I earned sixteen
shillings a week making butter and bread plates, wooden bowls, salad
spoons, and such like, and I earn about the same to-day when I’ve paid
for the ivory and the necessary things for the ‘shop,’” he explained.
Then he added: “You seem to think it strange, Miss Rosselli. If you
place yourself for a moment in my position--that of a man without
further aim or ambition--you will not be surprised that I have, after
the lapse of nearly forty years, returned to the old trade to which I
served my apprenticeship.”
“I quite understand,” I responded, “and I only admire you that you do
not, like so many other rich men, lead a life of easy indolence.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “It isn’t in me to be still. I must be
at work, or I’m never happy. Only I have to be discreet for Gerald’s
sake,” and the old millionaire smiled--rather sadly, I thought.
CHAPTER VI
PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT
Day by day for many days we went over to Monte Carlo, why, I can
scarcely tell. All visitors to Nice drift there as if by the natural
law of gravitation, and we were no exception. Even though our memories
of the Sign of the Seven Sins were painful on account of poor Reggie’s
mysterious death, we nevertheless found distraction in the Rooms, the
crowds, and the music. Sometimes Gerald would act as escort, and at
other times we went alone after luncheon and risked a few louis on the
tables with varying success. We met quite a host of people we knew,
for the season was proceeding apace, and the nearness of the Carnival
attracted our compatriots from all over Europe.
And as the days passed my eyes were ever watchful. Truth to tell, Monte
Carlo had an attraction for me, not because of its picturesqueness or
its play, but because I knew that in that gay, fevered little world
there lived and moved the one man who held my future in his hands.
In the Rooms, in the “Paris,” in the Place, and in the Gardens I
searched for sight of him, but, alas! always in vain. I bought the
various visitors’ lists, but failed to discover his name as staying at
any of the villas or hotels. Yet I knew he was there, for had I not
seen him smile upon that woman who was my rival?
The papers continued to comment upon the mystery surrounding poor
Reggie’s tragic death, yet beyond a visit from the United States
Consul, who obtained a statement from us regarding his friends in
Philadelphia and took possession of certain effects found in his room,
absolutely nothing fresh transpired.
It was early in February, that month when Nice puts on its annual
air of gayety in preparation for the reign of the King of Folly;
when the streets are bright with colored decorations, great stands
are erected in the Place Massena, and the shops of the Avenue de la
Gare are ablaze with carnival costumes in the two colors previously
decided upon by the fêtes committee. Though Nice may be defective from
a sanitary point of view and her authorities churlish towards foreign
visitors, nevertheless, in early February it is certainly the gayest
and most charming spot on the whole Riviera. The very streets are
full of life and movement, sweet with the perfume of roses and violets
and mimosa, and at a time when the rest of Europe is held frost-bound
summer costumes and sunshades are the mode, while men wear their straw
hats and flannels upon that finest of all sea-walks, the palm-planted
Promenade des Anglais.
Poor Reggie’s brother, a doctor in Chicago, had arrived to obtain a
personal account of the mystery, which, of course, we gave. Gerald also
conducted him to the grave in the English Cemetery, whereon he laid a
beautiful wreath and gave orders for a handsome monument. Then, after
remaining three days, he returned to Genoa and thence by the North
German Lloyd to America.
We became, meanwhile, frequent guests at the Villa Fabron, dining there
often, and being always received cordially by the old millionaire.
The secretary, Barnes, appeared to me to rule the household, for he
certainly placed himself more in evidence than his employer, and
I could see that the relations between Gerald and this factotum
of his father were somewhat strained. He was a round-faced man of
about thirty-five, dark, clean-shaven, with a face that was quite
boyish-looking, but with a pair of small eyes that I did not like. I
always distrust people with small eyes.
From his manner, however, I gathered that he was a shrewd, hard-headed
man of business, and even Gerald himself had to admit that he fulfilled
the duties of his post admirably. Of course, I came into contact with
him very little. Now and then we met on the Promenade or in the Quai
St. Jean Baptiste, and he raised his hat in passing, or he would
encounter us at the Villa when we visited there, but beyond that I had
not spoken with him a dozen words.
“He has the face of a village idiot with eyes like a Scotland Yard
detective,” was Ulrica’s terse summary of his appearance, and it was an
admirable description.
On the Sunday afternoon when the first Battle of Confetti was fought
we went forth in our satin dominoes of mauve and old gold--the colors
of that year--and had glorious fun pelting all and sundry with paper
confetti or whirling serpentines among the crowd in the Avenue de
la Gare. Those who have been in Nice during Carnival know the wild
gayety of that Sabbath, the procession of colossal cars and grotesque
figures, the ear-splitting bands, the ridiculous costumes of the