The Sign of the Seven Sins
maskers, the careless, buoyant fun, and the good humor of everybody in
that huge cosmopolitan crowd. Gerald was with us, as well as another
young American named Fordyce, whom we had known at home and who was now
staying at the Métropole over at Cannes. With our sacks containing the
confetti slung over our shoulders and the hoods of our bright dominoes
drawn over our heads and wearing half-masks of black velvet, we mixed
with the gay crowd the whole of that afternoon, heartily participating
in the fun.
I confess that I enjoyed, and shall always, I hope, enjoy, the Nice
Carnival immensely. Many constant visitors condemn it as a tawdry
tinsel show, and leave Nice for a fortnight in order to escape the
uproar and boisterous fun, but after all, even though the air of
recklessness would perchance shock some of the more puritanical in
our own land, there is, nevertheless, an enormous amount of harmless,
healthy fun to be derived from it. It is only soured spinsters and the
gouty who really object to Carnival. The regular visitor to the Riviera
condemns it merely because it is good form to condemn anything vulgar.
They once enjoyed it, until its annual repetition became wearisome.
After the fight with confetti, during which our hair and dominoes got
sadly tumbled, we struggled through the crowd to the hotel, and while
Gerald went along to the café outside the Casino to wait for us we
dressed.
Quite a host of people dined at the Villa Fabron that evening,
including several pretty English girls. A millionaire never lacks
friends. Old Benjamin Keppel was something of a recluse, and it was
not often that he sent out so many invitations, but when he gave a
dinner he spared no expense, and that in honor of Carnival was truly a
gastronomic marvel. The table was decorated with mauve and old gold,
the Carnival colors, and the room, draped with satin of the same
shades, presented a mass of blended hues particularly striking.
The old millionaire headed the table, and in his breezy, open-hearted
manner made everyone happy at once. Both Ulrica and I wore new
frocks, which we considered were the latest triumphs of our Nice
couturière,--they certainly ought to have been if they were not, for
their cost was ruinous,--and there were also quite a number of bright
dresses and good-looking men.
As I sat there amid the gay chatter of the table I looked at the spare,
gray-bearded man at its head and fell into reflection. How strange it
was that this man, worth more millions than he could count upon his
fingers, actually toiled in secret each day at his lathe to earn a few
shillings a week from an English firm as pocket-money. All his gay
friends who sat around his table were ignorant of that fact. He only
revealed it to those in whom he placed trust, and I was one of the
latter.
After dinner we all went forth into the gardens, which were illuminated
everywhere with colored lights and lanterns, wandering beneath the
orange-trees, joking and chattering. A rather insipid young prig was
at first my companion, but presently I found myself beside old Mr.
Keppel, who walked at my side far down the hill until we came to the
dark belt of olives which formed the boundary of his domain. Villas on
the Riviera do not usually possess extensive grounds, but the Villa
Fabron was an exception, for the gardens ran right down almost to that
well-known white sea-road that leads along from Nice to the mouth of
the Var.
“How charming!” I exclaimed, as, turning back, we gazed upon the long
terrace hung with Japanese lanterns, and the moving figures, smoking,
taking their coffee, and chattering.
“Yes,” the old man laughed. “I have to be polite to them now and then,
but after all, Miss Rosselli, they don’t come here to visit me, only to
spend a pleasant evening. Society expects me to entertain, so I have
to. But I confess that I never feel at home among all these folks, as
Gerald does.”
“I fear you are becoming just a little world-weary,” I said, smiling.
“Becoming! Why, I was tired of it all years ago,” he answered, glancing
at me with a serious expression in his deep-set eyes. It seemed as
though he wished to confide in me, and yet dared not do so.
“Why not try a change?” I suggested. “You have the Vispera lying at
Villefranche. Why not take a trip in her up the Mediterranean?”
“Would you like to go on a cruise in her?” he asked suddenly. “If you
would, I should be very pleased to take you. I might invite a party for
a run say to Naples and back.”
“I should, of course, be delighted,” I answered enthusiastically,
for yachting was one of my favorite pastimes, and on board such a
magnificent craft, one of the finest private vessels afloat, life would
be most enjoyable.
“Very well, I’ll see what I can arrange,” he answered, and then we fell
to discussing other things.
He smoked thoughtfully as he strolled beside me, his mind evidently
much preoccupied. The stars were bright overhead, the night balmy and
still, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. It was hard to
believe that it was actually midwinter.
“I fear,” he said at last,--“I fear, Miss Rosselli, that you find me a
rather lonely man, don’t you?”
“You have no reason to be lonely,” I responded. “Surrounded by all
these friends, your life might surely be very gay if you wished.”
“Friends? Bah!” he cried in a tone of ridicule. “There’s an attraction
in money that is irresistible. These people here, all of them, bow down
before the golden calf. Sometimes, Miss Rosselli, I have thought that
there’s no real honesty of purpose in the world.”
“I’m afraid you are a bit of a cynic,” I laughed.
“And if I am, may I not be forgiven?” he urged. “I can assure you I
find life very dull indeed.”
It was a strange confession, coming from the lips of such a man. If
only I had a sixteenth part of his wealth I should, I reflected, be a
very happy woman--unless the common saying were actually true, that
great wealth only created unbearable burdens.
“You are not the only one who finds life wearisome,” I observed
frankly. “I also plead guilty to the indictment on frequent occasions.”
“You!” he cried, halting and regarding me in surprise. “You--young,
pretty, vivacious, with ever so many men in love with you? And you are
tired of it all, tired of it while still in your twenties--impossible!”
CHAPTER VII
MAINLY CONCERNS THE OWL
Ulrica was that night wildly hilarious at my expense. She had noticed
me walking tête-à-tête with old Mr. Keppel, and accused me of flirting
with him.
Now, I may be given to harmless frivolities with men of my own age, but
I certainly have never endeavored to attract those of maturer years.
Elderly men may have admired me,--that I do not deny,--but assuredly
that has been through no fault of my own. A woman’s gowns are always an
object of attention among the sterner sex. If, therefore, she dresses
smartly, she can at once attract a certain section of males, even
though her facial expression may be the reverse of prepossessing. Truth
to tell, a woman’s natural chic, her taste in dress, and her style of
coiffure are by far the most important factors towards her well-being.
The day of the healthful, buxom pink-and-white beauty is long past. The
woman rendered artistic by soft chiffons, dainty blouses, and graceful
tea-gowns reigns in her stead.
“Old Mr. Keppel walked with me because he wanted company, I suppose,” I
protested. “I had no idea such a misconstruction would be placed upon
our conversation, Ulrica.”
“Why, my dear, everyone noticed it and remarked about it! He neglected
his guests and walked with you a whole hour in the garden. Whatever did
you find to talk about all that long time?”
“Nothing,” I responded simply. “He only took me round the place. I
don’t think he cares very much for the people he entertains, or he
wouldn’t have neglected them in that manner.”
“No. But I heard some spiteful things said about yourself,” Ulrica
remarked.
“By whom?”
“By various people. They all said that you had been angling after the
old man for a long time--that you had followed him to Nice, in fact.”
“Oh Ulrica!” I cried indignantly. “How can they say such things? Why,
you know that it was yourself who introduced us.”
“I know,” she answered rather curtly, “but I didn’t expect that you
would make such a fool of yourself as you have done to-night. Have you
already forgotten Ernest?”
“Ah!” I cried, “you have no heart. Would that I had none. Love within
me is not yet dead. Would to God it were. I might then be like you,
cold and cynical, partaking of the pleasures of the world without a
thought of its griefs. As I am, I must love. My love for that man is my
very life. Without it I should die.”
“No, no, my dear,” she said quickly in a kindly tone, “don’t cry, or
your eyes will be a horrid sight to-morrow. I didn’t mean anything, you
know,” and she drew down my head and kissed me tenderly on the brow.
I left and went to my room, but her words rang constantly in my ears.
The idea that the old millionaire had been attracted by me was a novel
one.
The whole theory was ridiculous. It had been started by some lying,
ill-natured woman for want of something else to gossip about, therefore
why should I heed it? I liked him, it was true, but I could never love
him--never.
Reader, you may think it strange that we two young women were
wandering about Europe together without any male relative. The truth
is that that personage so peculiarly British, and known as Mrs.
Grundy, is dead. It is primarily her complete downfall in this age of
emancipation, bicycles, and bloomers that makes the modern spinster’s
lot in many respects an eminently attractive one.
We were discussing it over our coffee on the following morning, when
Ulrica, referring to our conversation on the previous night, said,--
“Formerly, girls married in order to gain their social liberty;
now, they more often remain single to bring about that desirable
consummation.”
“Certainly,” I acquiesced. “If we are permitted by public opinion to go
to college, to live alone, to travel, to have a profession, to belong
to a club, to wear divided skirts,--not that I approve of them,--to
give parties, to read and discuss whatsoever seems good to us, to go
to theatres and even to Monte Carlo without masculine escort, then we
have most of the privileges--and several others thrown in--for which
the girl of twenty or thirty years ago was ready to sell herself to the
first suitor who offered himself and the shelter of his name.”
“I’m very glad, my dear, that at last you are becoming so very
sensible,” she answered approvingly. “Until now you have been far too
romantic and too old-fashioned in your ideas. I really think that I
shall convert you to my views of life in time--if you don’t marry old
Keppel.”
“Kindly don’t mention him again,” I protested firmly. “To a certain
extent I entirely agree with you regarding the emancipation of woman. A
capable woman who has begun a career, and feels certain of advancement
in it, is often as shy of entangling herself matrimonially as ambitious
young men have ever shown themselves to be in like circumstances.”
“Without doubt. The disadvantage of marriage to a woman with a
profession is more obvious than to a man, and it is just the question
of maternity, with all its duties and responsibilities, which is
occasionally the cause of many women forswearing the privileges of the
married state.”
“Well, Ulrica,” I said, “speak candidly, would you marry if you had a
really good offer?”
“Marry? Certainly not!” she answered with a laugh, as though the idea
was perfectly preposterous. “Why should I marry? I have had a host of
offers, just as every woman with a little money always has. But why