CHAPTER IV

THE JOKE OF MONSIEUR

With the same inward bitterness that attends the mental processes of a

performing tiger on being sent back to its cage, Courtlandt returned to

his taxicab. He wanted to roar and lash and devour something. Instead, he

could only twist the ends of his mustache savagely. So she was a grand

duchess, or at least the morganatic wife of a grand duke! It did not seem

possible that any woman could be so full of malice. He simply could not

understand. It was essentially the Italian spirit; doubtless, till she

heard his voice, she had forgotten all about the episode that had

foundered his ship of happiness.

Her statement as to the primal cause was purely inventive. There was not a

grain of truth in it. He could not possibly have been so rude. He had been

too indifferent. Too indifferent! The repetition of the phrase made him

sit straighter. Pshaw! It could not be that. He possessed a little vanity;

if he had not, his history would not have been worth a scrawl. But he

denied the possession vehemently, as men are wont to do. Strange, a man

will admit smashing those ten articles of advisement known as the

decalogue and yet deny the inherent quality which surrenders the

admission--vanity. However you may look at it, man's vanity is a complex

thing. The vanity of a woman has a definite and commendable purpose: the

conquest of man, his purse, and half of his time. Too indifferent! Was it

possible that he had roused her enmity simply because he had made it

evident that her charms did not interest him? Beyond lifting his hat to

her, perhaps exchanging a comment on the weather, his courtesies had not

been extended. Courtlandt was peculiar in some respects. A woman attracted

him, or she did not. In the one case he was affable, winning, pleasant,

full of those agreeable little surprises that in turn attract a woman. In

the other case, he passed on, for his impressions were instant and did not

require the usual skirmishing.

A grand duchess! The straw-colored mustache now described two aggressive

points. What an impossible old world it was! The ambition of the English

nobility was on a far lower scale than that of their continental cousins.

On the little isle they were satisfied to marry soubrettes and chorus

girls. Here, the lady must be no less a personage than a grand-opera

singer or a _premiere danseuse_. The continental noble at least showed

some discernment; he did not choose haphazard; he desired the finished

product and was not to be satisfied with the material in the raw.

Oh, stubborn Dutchman that he had been! Blind fool! To have run away

instead of fighting to the last ditch for his happiness! The Desimone

woman was right: it had taken him a long time to come to the conclusion

that she had done him an ill turn. And during all these weary months he

had drawn a melancholy picture of himself as a wounded lion, creeping into

the jungle to hide its hurts, when, truth be known, he had taken the ways

of the jackass for a model. He saw plainly enough now. More than this,

where there had been mere obstacles to overcome there were now steep

mountains, perhaps inaccessible for all he knew. His jaw set, and the

pressure of his lips broke the sweep of his mustache, converting it into

bristling tufts, warlike and resolute.

As he was leaving, a square of light attracted his attention. He looked up

to see the outline of the bearded Russ in the window. Poor devil! He was

going to have a merry time of it. Well, that was his affair. Besides,

Russians, half the year chilled by their bitter snows, were susceptible to

volcanoes; they courted them as a counterbalance. Perhaps he had spoken

roughly, but his temper had not been under control. One thing he recalled

with grim satisfaction. He had sent a barbed arrow up the tube to disturb

the felicity of the dove-cote. The duke would be rather curious to know

what was meant in referring to the night she had come to his,

Courtlandt's, room. He laughed. It would be a fitting climax indeed if the

duke called him out.

But what of the pretty woman in the Taverne Royale? What about her? At

whose bidding had she followed him? One or the other of them had not told

the truth, and he was inclined to believe that the prevarication had its

source in the pomegranate lips of the Calabrian. To give the old barb one

more twist, to learn if its venomous point still held and hurt; nothing

would have afforded the diva more delight. Courtlandt glared at the window

as the shade rolled down.

When the taxicab joined the long line of carriages and automobiles

opposite the Austrian ambassador's, Courtlandt awoke to the dismal and

disquieting fact that he had formulated no plan of action. He had done no

more than to give the driver his directions; and now that he had arrived,

he had the choice of two alternatives. He could wait to see her come out

or return at once to his hotel, which, as subsequent events affirmed,

would have been the more sensible course. He would have been confronted

with small difficulty in gaining admission to the house. He knew enough of

these general receptions; the announcing of his name would have conveyed

nothing to the host, who knew perhaps a third of his guests, and many of

these but slightly. But such an adventure was distasteful to Courtlandt.

He could not overstep certain recognized boundaries of convention, and to

enter a man's house unasked was colossal impudence. Beyond this, he

realized that he could have accomplished nothing; the advantage would have

been hers. Nor could he meet her as she came out, for again the odds would

have been largely in her favor. No, the encounter must be when they two

were alone. She must be surprised. She must have no time to use her ready

wit. He had thought to wait until some reasonable plan offered itself for

trial; yet, here he was, with nothing definite or recognizable but the

fact that the craving to see her was not to be withstood. The blood began

to thunder in his ears. An idea presented itself. It appealed to him at

that moment as quite clever and feasible.

"Wait!" he called to the driver.

He dived among the carriages and cars, and presently he found what he

sought,--her limousine. He had taken the number into his mind too keenly

to be mistaken. He saw the end of his difficulties; and he went about the

affair with his usual directness. It was only at rare times that he ran

his head into a cul-de-sac. If her chauffeur was regularly employed in her

service, he would have to return to the hotel; but if he came from the

garage, there was hope. Every man is said to have his price, and a French

chauffeur might prove no notable exception to the rule.

"Are you driver for Madame da Toscana?" Courtlandt asked of the man

lounging in the forward seat.

The chauffeur looked hard at his questioner, and on finding that he

satisfied the requirements of a gentleman, grumbled an affirmative. The

limousine was well known in Paris, and he was growing weary of these

endless inquiries.

"Are you in her employ directly, or do you come from the garage?"

"I am from the garage, but I drive mademoiselle's car most of the time,

especially at night. It is not madame but mademoiselle, Monsieur."

"My mistake." A slight pause. It was rather a difficult moment for

Courtlandt. The chauffeur waited wonderingly. "Would you like to make five

hundred francs?"

"How, Monsieur?"

Courtlandt should have been warned by the tone, which contained no unusual

interest or eagerness.

"Permit me to remain in mademoiselle's car till she comes. I wish to ride

with her to her apartment."

The chauffeur laughed. He stretched his legs. "Thanks, Monsieur. It is

very dull waiting. Monsieur knows a good joke."

And to Courtlandt's dismay he realized that his proposal had truly been

accepted as a jest.

"I am not joking. I am in earnest. Five hundred francs. On the word of a

gentleman I mean mademoiselle no harm. I am known to her. All she has to

do is to appeal to you, and you can stop the car and summon the police."

The chauffeur drew in his legs and leaned toward his tempter. "Monsieur,

if you are not jesting, then you are a madman. Who are you? What do I know

about you? I never saw you before, and for two seasons I have driven

mademoiselle in Paris. She wears beautiful jewels to-night. How do I know

that you are not a gentlemanly thief? Ride home with mademoiselle! You are

crazy. Make yourself scarce, Monsieur; in one minute I shall call the

police."

"Blockhead!"

English of this order the Frenchman perfectly understood. "_La, la!_" he

cried, rising to execute his threat.

Courtlandt was furious, but his fury was directed at himself as much as at

the trustworthy young man getting down from the limousine. His eagerness

had led him to mistake stupidity for cleverness. He had gone about the

affair with all the clumsiness of a boy who was making his first

appearance at the stage entrance. It was mightily disconcerting, too, to

have found an honest man when he was in desperate need of a dishonest one.

He had faced with fine courage all sorts of dangerous wild animals; but at

this moment he hadn't the courage to face a policeman and endeavor to

explain, in a foreign tongue, a situation at once so delicate and so

singularly open to misconstruction. So, for the second time in his life he

took to his heels. Of the first time, more anon. He scrambled back to his

own car, slammed the door, and told the driver to drop him at the Grand.

His undignified retreat caused his face to burn; but discretion would not

be denied. However, he did not return to the hotel.

Mademoiselle da Toscana's chauffeur scratched his chin in perplexity. In

frightening off his tempter he recognized that now he would never be able

to find out who he was. He should have played with him until mademoiselle

came out. She would have known instantly. That would have been the time

for the police. To hide in the car! What the devil! Only a madman would

have offered such a proposition. The man had been either an American or an

Englishman, for all his accuracy in the tongue. Bah! Perhaps he had heard

her sing that night, and had come away from the Opera, moonstruck. It was

not an isolated case. The fools were always pestering him, but no one had

ever offered so uncommon a bribe: five hundred francs. Mademoiselle might

not believe that part of the tale. Mademoiselle was clever. There was a

standing agreement between them that she would always give him half of

whatever was offered him in the way of bribes. It paid. It was easier to

sell his loyalty to her for two hundred and fifty francs than to betray

her for five hundred. She had yet to find him untruthful, and to-night he

would be as frank as he had always been.

But who was this fellow in the Bavarian hat, who patrolled the sidewalk?

He had been watching him when the madman approached. For an hour or more

he had walked up and down, never going twenty feet beyond the limousine.

He couldn't see the face. The long dark coat had a military cut about the

hips and shoulders. From time to time he saw him glance up at the lighted

windows. Eh, well; there were other women in the world besides

mademoiselle, several others.

He had to wait only half an hour for her appearance. He opened the door

and saw to it that she was comfortably seated; then he paused by the

window, touching his cap.

"What is it, Francois?"

"A gentleman offered me five hundred francs, Mademoiselle, if I would

permit him to hide in the car."

"Five hundred francs? To hide in the car? Why didn't you call the

police?"

"I started to, Mademoiselle, but he ran away."

"Oh! What was he like?" The prima donna dropped the bunch of roses on the

seat beside her.

"Oh, he looked well enough. He had the air of a gentleman. He was tall,

with light hair and mustache. But as I had never seen him before, and as

Mademoiselle wore some fine jewels, I bade him be off."

"Would you know him again?"

"Surely, Mademoiselle."

"The next time any one bothers you, call the police. You have done well,

and I shall remember it. Home."

The man in the Bavarian hat hurried back to the third car from the

limousine, and followed at a reasonably safe distance.

The singer leaned back against the cushions. She was very tired. The opera

that night had taxed her strength, and but for her promise she would not

have sung to the ambassador's guests for double the fee. There was an

electric bulb in the car. She rarely turned it on, but she did to-night.

She gazed into the little mirror; and utter weariness looked back from out

the most beautiful, blue, Irish eyes in the world. She rubbed her fingers

carefully up and down the faint perpendicular wrinkle above her nose. It

was always there on nights like this. How she longed for the season to

end! She would fly away to the lakes, the beautiful, heavenly tinted

lakes, the bare restful mountains, and the clover lawns spreading under

brave old trees; she would walk along the vineyard paths, and loiter under

the fig-trees, far, far away from the world, its clamor, its fickleness,

its rasping jealousies. Some day she would have enough; and then, good-by

to all the clatter, the evil-smelling stages, the impossible people with

whom she was associated. She would sing only to those she loved.

The glamour of the life had long ago passed; she sang on because she had

acquired costly habits, because she was fond of beautiful things, and

above all, because she loved to sing. She had as many moods as a bird, as

many sides as nature. A flash of sunshine called to her voice; the beads

of water, trembling upon the blades of grass after a summer shower,

brought a song to her lips. Hers was a God-given voice, and training had

added to it nothing but confidence. True, she could act; she had been told

by many a great impressario that histrionically she had no peer in grand

opera. But the knowledge gave her no thrill of delight. To her it was the

sum of a tremendous physical struggle.

She shut off the light and closed her eyes. She reclined against the

cushion once more, striving not to think. Once, her hands shut tightly.

Never, never, never! She pressed down the burning thoughts by recalling

the bright scenes at the ambassador's, the real generous applause that had

followed her two songs. Ah, how that man Paderewski played! They two had

cost the ambassador eight thousand francs. Fame and fortune! Fortune she

could understand; but fame! What was it? Upon a time she believed she had

known what fame was; but that had been when she was striving for it. A

glowing article in a newspaper, a portrait in a magazine, rows upon rows

of curious eyes and a patter of hands upon hands; that was all; and for

this she had given the best of her life, and she was only twenty-five.

The limousine stopped at last. The man in the Bavarian hat saw her alight.

His car turned and disappeared. It had taken him a week to discover where

she lived. His lodgings were on the other side of the Seine. After

reaching them he gave crisp orders to the driver, who set his machine off

at top speed. The man in the Bavarian hat entered his room and lighted the

gas. The room was bare and cheaply furnished. He took off his coat but

retained his hat, pulling it down still farther over his eyes. His face

was always in shadow. A round chin, two full red lips, scantily covered by

a blond mustache were all that could be seen. He began to walk the floor

impatiently, stopping and listening whenever he heard a sound. He waited

less than an hour for the return of the car. It brought two men. They were

well-dressed, smoothly-shaven, with keen eyes and intelligent faces. Their

host, who had never seen either of his guests before, carelessly waved his

hand toward the table where there were two chairs. He himself took his

stand by the window and looked out as he talked. In another hour the room

was dark and the street deserted.

In the meantime the prima donna gave a sigh of relief. She was home. It

was nearly two o'clock. She would sleep till noon, and Saturday and Sunday

would be hers. She went up the stairs instead of taking the lift, and

though the hall was dark, she knew her way. She unlocked the door of the

apartment and entered, swinging the door behind her. As the act was

mechanical, her thoughts being otherwise engaged, she did not notice that

the lock failed to click. The ferrule of a cane had prevented that.

She flung her wraps on the divan and put the roses in an empty bowl. The

door opened softly, without noise. Next, she stopped before the mirror

over the mantel, touched her hair lightly, detached the tiara of emeralds

... and became as inanimate as marble. She saw another face. She never

knew how long the interval of silence was. She turned slowly.

"Yes, it is I!" said the man.

Instantly she turned again to the mantel and picked up a

magazine-revolver. She leveled it at him.

"Leave this room, or I will shoot."

Courtlandt advanced toward her slowly. "Do so," he said. "I should much

prefer a bullet to that look."

"I am in earnest." She was very white, but her hand was steady.

He continued to advance. There followed a crash. The smell of burning

powder filled the room. The Burmese gong clanged shrilly and whirled

wildly. Courtlandt felt his hair stir in terror.

"You must hate me indeed," he said quietly, as the sense of terror died

away. He folded his arms. "Try again; there ought to be half a dozen

bullets left. No? Then, good-by!" He left the apartment without another

word or look, and as the door closed behind him there was a kind of

finality in the clicking of the latch.

The revolver clattered to the floor, and the woman who had fired it leaned

heavily against the mantel, covering her eyes.

"Nora, Nora!" cried a startled voice from a bedroom adjoining. "What has

happened? _Mon Dieu_, what is it?" A pretty, sleepy-eyed young woman, in a

night-dress, rushed into the room. She flung her arms about the singer.

"Nora, my dear, my dear!"

"He forced his way in. I thought to frighten him. It went off

accidentally. Oh, Celeste, Celeste, I might have killed him!"

The other drew her head down on her shoulder, and listened. She could hear

voices in the lower hall, a shout of warning, a patter of steps; then the

hall door slammed. After that, silence, save for the faint mellowing

vibrations of the Burmese gong.