The Sign of the Seven Sins
should I renounce my freedom? If I married, my husband would forbid
this and forbid that--and you know I couldn’t live without indulging
in my little pet vices of smoking and gambling.”
“Wouldn’t your husband’s love fill the void?” I queried.
“It would be but a poor substitute, I’m afraid. The most ardent love
nowadays cools within six months, it seems, and more often even wanes
with the honeymoon.”
“I have really no patience with you,” I said hastily; “you are far too
cynical.”
She smiled, sighing slightly. She looked so young in her pale pink
peignoir.
“Contact with the world has, alas! made me what I am, my dear.”
“Well,” I said, “to be quite candid, I don’t think that the real cause
why so many women nowadays remain single is to be found in the theories
we have been airing to one another. The fact is that after all we are
only a bundle of nerves and emotions, and once our affections are
involved we are capable of any heroism.”
“You may be one of those, my dear,” was her rather grave response. “I
am afraid, however, that I am not.”
I didn’t pursue the subject further. She was kind and sympathetic in
all else save where my love was concerned. My affection for Ernest was
to her merely an amusing incident. She seemed unable to realize how
terribly serious I was or what a crushing blow had fallen upon me when
he had turned and forsaken me.
Gerald called at eleven, for he had arranged to accompany us over to
the Farrells’ at Beaulieu.
“Miss Rosselli,” he cried as he greeted me, “you are a brick--that you
are!”
“A brick!” I echoed. “Why?”
“Why, you’ve worked an absolute miracle with the guv’nor. Nobody
else could persuade him to set foot on the Vispera except to return
to New York, yet you’ve induced him to arrange for a cruise up the
Mediterranean. What’s more, we are going to leave that cur Barnes
behind.”
“Are you glad?” I asked.
“Glad! I should rather think so. We shall have a most glorious time!
He intends asking the Farrells, Lord Eldersfield, Lord and Lady
Stoneborough, and quite a lot of people. We’ve got you to thank for it.
No power on earth would induce him to put to sea except yourself, Miss
Rosselli.”
The Carnival bal-masqué at the Casino, the great event of the King
Carnival’s reign, took place on the following Sunday night, and we
made to a party to go to it. There were seven of us, and we looked a
grotesque crowd as we assembled in the vestibule of the Grand attired
in our fantastic garbs and wearing those mysterious masks of black
velvet which so effectively concealed our features. Ulrica represented
a Watteau shepherdess with wig and crook complete, while I was en
bébé, a more simple costume surmounted by a sun-bonnet of colossal
proportions. One of the women of the party was a Queen of Folly and
another wore a striking Louis XV. dress, while Gerald represented a
demon, and wore pins in his tail in order to prevent others pulling
that dorsal appendage.
The distance from the hotel to the Casino is only a few hundred yards,
therefore we walked, a merry, laughing group, for the novelty of the
thing was sublime. Among our party only Gerald had witnessed a previous
Carnival ball, and he had led us to expect a scene of wildest merriment.
Certainly we were not disappointed. Having run the gauntlet of a crowd
who smothered us with confetti, we entered the great winter-garden of
the Casino and found it a blaze of color--the two colors of Carnival.
Suspended from the high glass roof were thousands of bannerets of mauve
and old gold, while the costumes of the revellers were of the self-same
shades. Everywhere were colored lights of similar hue, and the fun was
already fast and furious. The side-rooms, which, as most readers will
remember, are ordinarily devoted to gambling,--for gambling in a mild
form is permitted at Nice,--were now turned into handsome supper-rooms,
and in the winter-garden and the theatre beyond the scene was perhaps
one of the liveliest and most animated in the whole world.
All had gone there to enjoy themselves. In the theatre there was wild
dancing, the boxes were filled by the grand monde of Europe, princes
and princesses, grand dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses,
noted actresses from Paris and London, and well-known people of every
nationality, all enjoying the scene of uproarious merry-making. We
viewed it first from our own box, but at length someone suggested that
we should descend and dance, an idea which was promptly acted upon.
Masked as every one was, with the little piece of black lace tacked to
the bottom of the black velvet loup in order to conceal the lower part
of the features, it was impossible to recognize a single person in that
huge, whirling crowd. Therefore immediately we descended to the floor
of the theatre we at once became separated from one another. I stood
for a few minutes bewildered. The blaze of color made one’s head reel.
People in all sorts of droll costumes, false heads, and ugly masks were
playing various kinds of childish antics. Out in the winter-garden
clowns and devils were playing leap-frog and sylphs and angels, joining
hands, were whirling round and round in huge rings playing some game
and screaming with laughter. Almost every one carried miniature
representations of Punch with bells attached, large rattles, or paper
flowers, which when blown elongated to a ridiculous extent.
Never before in all my life had I been amid such a merry, irresponsible
crowd. The ludicrousness of Carnival reaches its climax in the ball
at the Casino, and whatever may be said of it, it is without doubt
one of the annual sights of Europe. I have heard it denounced as a
disgraceful exhibition by old ladies who have been compelled to admit
that they had never been present, but I must say that from first to
last, although the fun was absolutely unbridled, I saw nothing whatever
to offend.
I was standing aside, watching the dancers, when suddenly a tall man
dressed in a remarkable costume representing an owl approached, and
bowing, said in rather good English, in a deep but not unmusical
voice,--
“Might I have the pleasure of this dance with mademoiselle?”
I glanced at him in suspicion. He was a weird-looking creature in his
bird dress of mauve and old gold and the strange mask with two black
eyes peering out at me. Besides, it was not my habit to dance with
strangers.
“Ah!” he laughed. “You hesitate because we have not been introduced.
Here in Nice at Carnival one introduces one’s self. Well, I have
introduced myself, and now I ask you what is your opinion of my
marvellous get-up. Don’t you think me a really fine bird?”
“Certainly,” I laughed. “You’re absolutely hideous.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he answered pleasantly. “To unmask is
forbidden, or I would take off this terrible affair, for I confess I am
half stifled. But if I’m ugly you are absolutely charming. It is a case
of Beauty and the Bird. Aren’t my wings fetching?”
“Very.”
“I knew you were American. Funny how we Frenchmen can always spot
Americans.”
“How did you know that I was American?” I inquired.
“Ah! now that’s a secret,” he laughed. “But hark! it’s a waltz. Come
under my wing, and let’s dance. I know you’d dearly love a turn round.
For this once throw the introduction farce to the winds and let me take
you round. The owl is never a ferocious bird, you know.”
For a moment I hesitated, then, consenting, I whirled away among the
dancers with my strange, unknown partner.
“I saw you up in that box,” he said presently. “I waited for you to
come down.”
“Why?” With a woman’s innate coquetry I felt a delight in misleading
him, just as he was trying to mislead me. There was a decided air
of adventure in that curious meeting. Besides, so many of the
dresses were absolutely alike that now we had become separated it was
impossible for me to discover any of our party. The Nice dressmakers
make dozens of Carnival dresses exactly similar, and when the wearers
are masked it is hard to distinguish one from the other.
“Well,” he said evasively in answer to my question, “I wanted a
partner.”
“And so you waited for me? Surely any other would have done as well?”
“No, that is just it. They wouldn’t. I wanted to dance with you.”
The waltz had ended, and we strolled together out of the theatre into
the great winter-garden with its bright flower-beds and graceful palms,
a kind of huge conservatory which forms a gay promenade each evening in
the season.
“I don’t see why you should entertain such a desire,” I said.
“Besides,” and I paused to gain breath for the little untruth, “I fear
that my husband will be furious if he has noticed us.”
“I might say the same about my wife--if I wished to import fiction into
the romance,” he said.
“Then you have no wife?” I suggested with a laugh.
“My wife is just as real as your husband,” he responded bluntly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you really have a husband it is an extremely surprising
confession.”
“Why surprising?”
“Well, it’s true that husbands are like Somebody’s sewing-machines--no
home being complete without one,” he laughed. “But I really had no idea
that Mademoiselle Carmela Rosselli possessed such a useful commodity.”
“What!” I gasped, glaring at the hideous-looking Owl, “you know me?”
“Yes,” he responded in a deeper voice, more earnestly than before. “I
know quite well who you are. I have come here to-night expressly to
speak with you.”
I started, and stood glaring at him in wonderment.
“I have,” he added in a low, confidential tone, “something important to
say to you--something most important.”
CHAPTER VIII
NARRATES A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT
“You are a perfect stranger, sir,” I said with considerable hauteur.
“Until you care to give me your name, and make known who you are, I
have no wish to hear this important statement of yours.”
“No,” he answered. “I regret very much that for certain reasons I
am unfortunately unable to furnish my name. I am The Owl--that is
sufficient.”
“No, not for me. I am not in the habit of thus chattering with
strangers at a public ball, therefore I wish you good-evening,” I said,
and turned abruptly away.
In an instant he was again by my side.
“Listen, Miss Rosselli,” he said in a deeply earnest tone. “You must
listen to me. I have something to tell you which closely concerns
yourself--your future welfare.”
“Well?” I inquired.
“I can’t speak here, as someone may overhear. I had to exercise
the greatest precaution in approaching you, for there are spies
everywhere, and a single blunder will be fatal.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired, at once interested. The manner of this
hideously disguised man who spoke such excellent English was certainly
mysterious, and I could not doubt that he was in real earnest.
“Let us walk over there and sit in that corner,” he said, indicating
a seat half hidden in the bamboos. “If there is no one near, I will
explain. If we are watched, then we must contrive to find some other
place.”
“In our box,” I suggested. “We can sit at the back in the alcove where
no one can see us.”
“Excellent!” he answered. “I never thought of that. But if any of your
party should return there?”
“I can merely say that you invited me to dance, and I, in return,
invited you there for a few moments’ rest.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, and a few minutes later we were sitting far
back in the shadow of the box on the second tier, high above the music
and gay revelry.
“Well?” I inquired eagerly when we were seated, “and why did you wish
to see me to-night?”
“First, I have knowledge--which you will not, I think, deny--that you
loved a man in Washington, one Ernest Cameron.”
“Well?”
“And at this moment there is a second man who, although not your lover,