CHAPTER III

THE BEAUTIFUL TIGRESS

Flora Desimone had been born in a Calabrian peasant's hut, and she had

rolled in the dust outside, yelling vigorously at all times. Specialists

declare that the reason for all great singers coming from lowly origin is

found in this early development of the muscles of the throat. Parents of

means employ nurses or sedatives to suppress or at least to smother these

infantile protests against being thrust inconsiderately into the turmoil

of human beings. Flora yelled or slept, as the case might be; her parents

were equally indifferent. They were too busily concerned with the getting

of bread and wine. Moreover, Flora was one among many. The gods are always

playing with the Calabrian peninsula, heaving it up here or throwing it

down there: _il terremoto_, the earthquake, the terror. Here nature

tinkers vicariously with souls; and she seldom has time to complete her

work. Constant communion with death makes for callosity of feeling; and

the Calabrians and the Sicilians are the cruellest among the civilized

peoples. Flora was ruthless.

She lived amazingly well in the premier of an apartment-hotel in the

Champs-Elysees. In England and America she had amassed a fortune. Given

the warm beauty of the Southern Italian, the passion, the temperament, the

love of mischief, the natural cruelty, the inordinate craving for

attention and flattery, she enlivened the nations with her affairs. And

she never put a single beat of her heart into any of them. That is why her

voice is still splendid and her beauty unchanging. She did not dissipate;

calculation always barred her inclination; rather, she loitered about the

Forbidden Tree and played that she had plucked the Apple. She had an

example to follow; Eve had none.

Men scattered fortunes at her feet as foolish Greeks scattered floral

offerings at the feet of their marble gods--without provoking the sense of

reciprocity or generosity or mercy. She had worked; ah, no one would ever

know how hard. She had been crushed, beaten, cursed, starved. That she had

risen to the heights in spite of these bruising verbs in no manner

enlarged her pity, but dulled and vitiated the little there was of it. Her

mental attitude toward humanity was childish: as, when the parent strikes,

the child blindly strikes back. She was determined to play, to enjoy life,

to give back blow for blow, nor caring where she struck. She was going to

press the juice from every grape. A thousand odd years gone, she would

have led the cry in Rome--"Bread and the circus!" or "To the lions!" She

would have disturbed Nero's complacency, and he would have played an

obbligato instead of a solo at the burning. And she was malice incarnate.

They came from all climes--her lovers--with roubles and lire and francs

and shillings and dollars; and those who finally escaped her enchantment

did so involuntarily, for lack of further funds. They called her villas

Circe's isles. She hated but two things in the world; the man she could

have loved and the woman she could not surpass.

Arrayed in a kimono which would have evoked the envy of the empress of

Japan, supposing such a gorgeous raiment--peacocks and pine-trees,

brilliant greens and olives and blues and purples--fell under the gaze of

that lady's slanting eyes, she sat opposite the Slavonic Jove and smoked

her cigarette between sips of coffee. Frequently she smiled. The short

powerful hand of the man stroked his beard and he beamed out of his

cunning eyes, eyes a trifle too porcine to suggest a keen intellect above

them.

"I am like a gorilla," he said; "but you are like a sleek tigress. I am

stronger, more powerful than you; but I am always in fear of your claws.

Especially when you smile like that. What mischief are you plotting now?"

She drew in a cloud of smoke, held it in her puffed cheeks as she glided

round the table and leaned over his shoulders. She let the smoke drift

over his head and down his beard. In that moment he was truly Jovian.

"Would you like me if I were a tame cat?" she purred.

"I have never seen you in that role. Perhaps I might. You told me that you

would give up everything but the Paris season."

"I have changed my mind." She ran one hand through his hair and the other

she entangled in his beard. "You'd change your mind, too, if you were a

woman."

"I don't have to change my mind; you are always doing it for me. But I do

not want to go to America next winter." He drew her down so that he might

look into her face. It was something to see.

"Bah!" She released herself and returned to her chair. "When the season is

over I want to go to Capri."

"Capri! Too hot."

"I want to go."

"My dear, a dozen exiles are there, waiting to blow me up." He spoke

Italian well. "You do not wish to see me spattered over the beautiful

isle?"

"Tch! tch! That is merely your usual excuse. You never had anything to do

with the police."

"No?" He eyed the end of his cigarette gravely. "One does not have to be

affiliated with the police. There is class prejudice. We Russians are very

fond of Egypt in the winter. Capri seems to be the half-way place. They

wait for us, going and coming. Poor fools!"

"I shall go alone, then."

"All right." In his dull way he had learned that to pull the diva, one

must agree with her. In agreeing with her one adroitly dissuaded her. "You

go to Capri, and I'll go to the pavilion on the Neva."

She snuffed the cigarette in the coffee-cup and frowned. "Some day you

will make me horribly angry."

"Beautiful tigress! If a man knew what you wanted, you would not want it.

I can't hop about with the agility of those dancers at the Theatre du

Palais Royale. The best I can do is to imitate the bear. What is wrong?"

"They keep giving her the premier parts. She has no more fire in her than

a dead grate. The English-speaking singers, they are having everything

their own way. And none of them can act."

"My dear Flora, this Eleonora is an actress, first of all. That she can

sing is a matter of good fortune, no more. Be reasonable. The consensus of

critical opinion is generally infallible; and all over the continent they

agree that she can act. Come, come; what do you care? She will never

approach your Carmen...."

"You praise her to me?" tempest in her glowing eyes.

"I do not praise her. I am quoting facts. If you throw that cup, my

tigress...."

"Well?" dangerously.

"It will spoil the set. Listen. Some one is at the speaking-tube."

The singer crossed the room impatiently. Ordinarily she would have

continued the dispute, whether the bell rang or not. But she was getting

the worst of the argument and the bell was a timely diversion. The duke

followed her leisurely to the wall.

"What is it?" asked Flora in French.

The voice below answered with a query in English. "Is this the Signorina

Desimone?"

"It is the duchess."

"The duchess?"

"Yes."

"The devil!"

She turned and stared at the duke, who shrugged. "No, no," she said; "the

duchess, not the devil."

"Pardon me; I was astonished. But on the stage you are still Flora

Desimone?"

"Yes. And now that my identity is established, who are you and what do you

want at this time of night?"

The duke touched her arm to convey that this was not the moment in which

to betray her temper.

"I am Edward Courtlandt."

"The devil!" mimicked the diva.

She and the duke heard a chuckle.

"I beg your pardon again, Madame."

"Well, what is it you wish?" amiably.

The duke looked at her perplexedly. It seemed to him that she was always

leaving him in the middle of things. Preparing himself for rough roads, he

would suddenly find the going smooth. He was never swift enough mentally

to follow these flying transitions from enmity to amity. In the present

instance, how was he to know that his tigress had found in the man below

something to play with?

"You once did me an ill turn," came up the tube. "I desire that you make

some reparation."

"Sainted Mother! but it has taken you a long time to find out that I have

injured you," she mocked.

There was no reply to this; so she was determined to stir the fire a

little.

"And I advise you to be careful what you say; the duke is a very jealous

man."

That gentleman fingered his beard thoughtfully.

"I do not care a hang if he is."

The duke coughed loudly close to the tube.

Silence.

"The least you can do, Madame, is to give me her address."

"Her address!" repeated the duke relievedly. He had had certain grave

doubts, but these now took wing. Old flames were not in the habit of

asking, nay, demanding, other women's addresses.

"I am speaking to Madame, your Highness," came sharply.

"We do not speak off the stage," said the singer, pushing the duke aside.

"I should like to make that young man's acquaintance," whispered the

duke.

She warned him to be silent.

Came the voice again: "Will you give me her address, please? Your

messenger gave me your address, inferring that you wished to see me."

"I?" There was no impeaching her astonishment.

"Yes, Madame."

"My dear Mr. Courtlandt, you are the last man in all the wide world I wish

to see. And I do not quite like the way you are making your request. His

highness does not either."

"Send him down!"

"That is true."

"What is?"

"I remember. You are very strong and much given to fighting."

The duke opened and shut his hands, pleasurably. Here was something he

could understand. He was a fighting man himself. Where was this going to

end, and what was it all about?

"Do you not think, Madame, that you owe me something?"

"No. What I owe I pay. Think, Mr. Courtlandt; think well."

"I do not understand," impatiently.

"_Ebbene_, I owe you nothing. Once I heard you say--'I do not like to see

you with the Calabrian; she is--Well, you know.' I stood behind you at

another time when you said that I was a fool."

"Madame, I do not forget that, that is pure invention. You are mistaken."

"No. You were. I am no fool." A light laugh drifted down the tube.

"Madame, I begin to see."

"Ah!"

"You believe what you wish to believe."

"I think not."

"I never even noticed you," carelessly.

"Take care!" whispered the duke, who noted the sudden dilation of her

nostrils.

"It is easy to forget," cried the diva, furiously. "It is easy for you to

forget, but not for me."

"Madame, I do not forget that you entered my room that night ..."

"Your address!" bawled the duke. "That statement demands an explanation."

"I should explain at once, your Highness," said the man down below calmly,

"only I prefer to leave that part in Madame's hands. I should not care to

rob her of anything so interesting and dramatic. Madame the duchess can

explain, if she wishes. I am stopping at the Grand, if you find her

explanations are not up to your requirements."

"I shall give you her address," interrupted the diva, hastily. The duke's

bristling beard for one thing and the ice in the other man's tones for

another, disquieted her. The play had gone far enough, much as she would

have liked to continue it. This was going deeper than she cared to go. She

gave the address and added: "To-night she sings at the Austrian

ambassador's. I give you this information gladly because I know that it

will be of no use to you."

"Then I shall dispense with the formality of thanking you. I add that I

wish you twofold the misery you have carelessly and gratuitously cost me.

Good night!" Click! went the little covering of the tube.

"Now," said the duke, whose knowledge of the English tongue was not so

indifferent that he did not gather the substance, if not all the shadings,

of this peculiar conversation; "now, what the devil is all this about?"

"I hate him!"

"Refused to singe his wings?"

"He has insulted me!"

"I am curious to learn about that night you went to his room."

Her bear had a ring in his nose, but she could not always lead him by it.

So, without more ado, she spun the tale, laughing at intervals. The story

evidently impressed the duke, for his face remained sober all through the

recital.

"Did he say that you were a fool?"

"Of course not!"

"Shall I challenge him?"

"Oh, my Russian bear, he fences like a Chicot; he is a dead shot; and is

afraid of nothing ... but a woman. No, no; I have something better. It

will be like one of those old comedies. I hate her!" with a burst of fury.

"She always does everything just so much better than I do. As for him, he

was nothing. It was she; I hurt her, wrung her heart."

"Why?" mildly.

"Is not that enough?"

"I am slow; it takes a long time for anything to get into my head; but

when it arrives, it takes a longer time to get it out."

"Well, go on." Her calm was ominous.

"Love or vanity. This American singer got what you could not get. You have

had your way too long. Perhaps you did not love him. I do not believe you

can really love any one but Flora. Doubtless he possessed millions; but on

the other hand, I am a grand duke; I offered marriage, openly and legally,

in spite of all the opposition brought to bear."

Flora was undeniably clever. She did the one thing that could successfully

cope with this perilous condition of the ducal mind. She laughed, and

flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"I have named you well. You are a tigress. But this comedy of which you

speak: it might pass in Russia, but not in Paris."

"I shall not be in the least concerned. My part was suggestion."

"You suggested it to some one else?"

"To be sure!"

"My objections ..."

"I will have my way in this affair. Besides, it is too late."

Her gesture was explicit. He sighed. He knew quite well that she was

capable of leaving the apartment that night, in her kimono.

"I'll go to Capri," resignedly. Dynamite bombs were not the worst things

in the world.

"I don't want to go now."

The duke picked up a fresh cigarette. "How the devil must have laughed

when the Lord made Eve!"