CHAPTER VI

THE BIRD BEHIND BARS

The most beautiful blue Irish eyes in the world gazed out at the dawn

which turned night-blue into day-blue and paled the stars. Rosal lay the

undulating horizon, presently to burst into living flame, transmuting the

dull steel bars of the window into fairy gold, that trick of alchemy so

futilely sought by man. There was a window at the north and another at the

south, likewise barred; but the Irish eyes never sought these two. It was

from the east window only that they could see the long white road that led

to Paris.

The nightingale was truly caged. But the wild heart of the eagle beat in

this nightingale's breast, and the eyes burned as fiercely toward the east

as the east burned toward the west. Sunday and Monday, Tuesday and

Wednesday and Thursday, to-day; and that the five dawns were singular in

beauty and that she had never in her life before witnessed the creation of

five days, one after another, made no impression upon her sense of the

beautiful, so delicate and receptive in ordinary times. She was conscious

that within her the cup of wrath was overflowing. Of other things, such as

eating and sleeping and moving about in her cage (more like an eagle

indeed than a nightingale), recurrence had blunted her perception.

Her clothes were soiled and crumpled, sundrily torn; her hair was in

disorder, and tendrils hung about her temples and forehead--thick black

hair, full of purple tones in the sunlight--for she had not surrendered

peacefully to this incarceration. Dignity, that phase of philosophy which

accepts quietly the inevitable, she had thrown to the winds. She had

fought desperately, primordially, when she had learned that her errand of

mercy was nothing more than a cruel hoax.

"Oh, but he shall pay, he shall pay!" she murmured, striving to loosen the

bars with her small, white, helpless hands. The cry seemed to be an

arietta, for through all these four maddening days she had voiced it,--now

low and deadly with hate, now full-toned in burning anger, now broken by

sobs of despair. "Will you never come, so that I may tell you how base and

vile you are?" she further addressed the east.

She had waited for his appearance on Sunday. Late in the day one of the

jailers had informed her that it was impossible for the gentleman to come

before Monday. So she marshaled her army of phrases, of accusations, of

denunciations, ready to smother him with them the moment he came. But he

came not Monday, nor Tuesday, nor Wednesday. The suspense was to her mind

diabolical. She began to understand: he intended to keep her there till he

was sure that her spirit was broken, then he would come. Break her spirit?

She laughed wildly. He could break her spirit no more easily than she

could break these bars. To bring her to Versailles upon an errand of

mercy! Well, he was capable of anything.

The room was large and fairly comfortable, but contained nothing

breakable, having been tenanted at one time by a strenuous lunatic, who

had considerately died after his immediate family and relations had worn

themselves into their several graves, taking care of him. But Eleonora

Harrigan knew nothing of the history of the room while she occupied it.

So, no ghost disturbed her restless slumberless nights, consumed in

watching and listening.

She was not particularly distressed because she knew that it would not be

possible for her to sing again until the following winter in New York. She

had sobbed too much, with her face buried in the pillow. Had these sobs

been born of weakness, all might have been well; but rage had mothered

them, and thus her voice was in a very bad way. This morning she was

noticeably hoarse, and there was a break in the arietta. No, she did not

fret over this side of the calamity. The sting of it all lay in the fact

that she had been outraged in the matter of personal liberty, with no act

of reprisal to ease her immediate longing to be avenged.

Nora, as she stood in the full morning sunlight, was like to gladden the

eyes of all mankind. She was beautiful, and all adjectives applicable

would but serve to confuse rather than to embellish her physical

excellence. She was as beautiful as a garden rose is, needing no defense,

no ramparts of cloying phrases. The day of poets is gone, otherwise she

would have been sung in cantos. She was tall, shapely, deep-bosomed,

fine-skinned. Critics, in praising her charms, delved into mythology and

folk-lore for comparisons, until there wasn't a goddess left on Olympus or

on Northland's icy capes; and when these images became a little shop-worn,

referred to certain masterpieces of the old fellows who had left nothing

more to be said in oils. Nora enjoyed it all.

She had not been happy in the selection of her stage name; but she had

chosen Eleonora da Toscana because she believed there was good luck in it.

Once, long before the world knew of her, she had returned home from Italy

unexpectedly. "Molly, here's Nora, from Tuscany!" her delighted father had

cried: who at that time had a nebulous idea that Tuscany was somewhere in

Ireland because it had a Celtic ring to it. Being filled with love of

Italy, its tongue, its history, its physical beauty, she naively

translated "Nora from Tuscany" into Italian, and declared that when she

went upon the stage she would be known by that name. There had been some

smiling over the pseudonym; but Nora was Irish enough to cling to it. By

and by the great music-loving public ceased to concern itself about her

name; it was her fresh beauty and her wonderful voice they craved to see

and hear. Kings and queens, emperors and empresses, princes and

princesses,--what is called royalty and nobility in the newspapers freely

gave her homage. Quite a rise in the world for a little girl who had once

lived in a shabby apartment in New York and run barefooted on the wet

asphalts, summer nights!

But Nora was not recalling the happy scenes of her childhood; indeed, no;

she was still threatening Paris. Once there, she would not lack for

reprisals. To have played on her pity! To have made a lure of her tender

concern for the unfortunate! Never would she forgive such baseness. And

only a little while ago she had been as happy as the nightingale to which

they compared her. Never had she wronged any one; she had been kindness

and thoughtfulness to all with whom she had come in contact. But from now

on!... Her fingers tightened round the bars. She might have posed as Dido

when she learned that the noble AEneas was dead. War, war; woe to the moths

who fluttered about her head hereafter!

Ah, but had she been happy? Her hands slid down the bars. Her expression

changed. The mouth drooped, the eagle-light in her eyes dimmed. From out

the bright morning, somewhere, had come weariness, and with this came

weakness, and finally, tears.

She heard the key turn in the lock. They had never come so early before.

She was astonished to see that her jailer did not close the door as usual.

He put down the breakfast tray on the table. There was tea and toast and

fruit.

"Mademoiselle, there has been a terrible mistake," said the man humbly.

"Ah! So you have found that out?" she cried.

"Yes. You are not the person for whom this room was intended." Which was

half a truth and perfectly true, paradoxical as it may seem. "Eat your

breakfast in peace. You are free, Mademoiselle."

"Free? You will not hinder me if I walk through that door?"

"No, Mademoiselle. On the contrary, I shall be very glad, and so will my

brother, who guards you at night. I repeat, there has been a frightful

mistake. Monsieur Champeaux ..."

"Monsieur Champeaux!" Nora was bewildered. She had never heard this name

before.

"He calls himself that," was the diplomatic answer.

All Nora's suspicions took firm ground again. "Will you describe this

Monsieur Champeaux to me?" asked the actress coming into life.

"He is short, dark, and old, Mademoiselle."

"Rather is he not tall, blond, and young?" ironically.

The jailer concealed what annoyance he felt. In his way he was just as

capable an actor as she was. The accuracy of her description startled him;

for the affair had been carried out so adroitly that he had been positive

that until her real captor appeared she would be totally in the dark

regarding his identity. And here she had hit it off in less than a dozen

words. Oh, well; it did not matter now. She might try to make it

unpleasant for his employer, but he doubted the ultimate success of her

attempts. However, the matter was at an end as far as he was concerned.

"Have you thought what this means? It is abduction. It is a crime you have

committed, punishable by long imprisonment."

"I have been Mademoiselle's jailer, not her abductor. And when one is poor

and in need of money!" He shrugged.

"I will give you a thousand francs for the name and address of the man who

instigated this outrage."

Ah, he thought: then she wasn't so sure? "I told you the name,

Mademoiselle. As for his address, I dare not give it, not for ten thousand

francs. Besides, I have said that there has been a mistake."

"For whom have I been mistaken?"

"Who but Monsieur Champeaux's wife, Mademoiselle, who is not in her right

mind?" with inimitable sadness.

"Very well," said Nora. "You say that I am free. That is all I want,

freedom."

"In twenty minutes the electric tram leaves for Paris. You will recall,

Mademoiselle," humbly, "that we have taken nothing belonging to you. You

have your purse and hat and cloak. The struggle was most unfortunate. But,

think, Mademoiselle, think; we thought you to be insane!"

"Permit me to doubt that! And you are not afraid to let me go?"

"Not in the least, Mademoiselle. A mistake has been made, and in telling

you to go at once, we do our best to rectify this mistake. It is only five

minutes to the tram. A carriage is at the door. Will Mademoiselle be

pleased to remember that we have treated her with the utmost courtesy?"

"I shall remember everything," ominously.

"Very good, Mademoiselle. You will be in Paris before nine." With this he

bowed and backed out of the room as though Nora had suddenly made a

distinct ascension in the scale of importance.

"Wait!" she called.

His face appeared in the doorway again.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Since this morning, Mademoiselle."

"That is all."

Free! Her veins tingled with strange exultation. He had lost his courage

and had become afraid of the consequences. Free! Monsieur Champeaux

indeed! Cowardice was a new development in his character. He had been

afraid to come. She drank the tea, but did not touch the toast or fruit.

There would be time enough for breakfast when she arrived in Paris. Her

hands trembled violently as she pinned on her hat, and she was not greatly

concerned as to the angle. She snatched up her purse and cloak, and sped

out into the street. A phaeton awaited her.

"The tram," she said.

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

"And go quickly." She would not feel safe until she was in the tram.

A face appeared at one of the windows. As the vehicle turned the corner,

the face vanished; and perhaps that particular visage disappeared forever.

A gray wig came off, the little gray side-whiskers, the bushy grey

eyebrows, revealing a clever face, not more than thirty, cunning, but

humorously cunning and anything but scoundrelly. The painted scar aslant

the nose was also obliterated. With haste the man thrust the evidences of

disguise into a traveling-bag, ran here and there through the rooms, all

bare and unfurnished save the one with the bars and the kitchen, which

contained two cots and some cooking utensils. Nothing of importance had

been left behind. He locked the door and ran all the way to the Place

d'Armes, catching the tram to Paris by a fraction of a minute.

All very well done. She would be in Paris before the police made any

definite move. The one thing that disturbed him was the thought of the

blockhead of a chauffeur, who had got drunk before his return from

Versailles. If he talked; well, he could say nothing beyond the fact that

he had deposited the singer at the house as directed. He knew positively

nothing.

The man laughed softly. A thousand francs apiece for him and Antoine, and

no possible chance of being discovered. Let the police find the house in

Versailles; let them trace whatever paths they found; the agent would tell

them, and honestly, that an aged man had rented the house for a month and

had paid him in advance. What more could the agent say? Only one bit of

puzzlement: why hadn't the blond stranger appeared? Who was he, in truth,

and what had been his game? All this waiting and wondering, and then a

curt telegram of the night before, saying, "Release her." So much the

better. What his employer's motives were did not interest him half so much

as the fact that he had a thousand francs in his pocket, and that all

element of danger had been done away with. True, the singer herself would

move heaven and earth to find out who had been back of the abduction. Let

her make her accusations. He was out of it.

He glanced toward the forward part of the tram. There she sat, staring at

the white road ahead. A young Frenchman sat near her, curling his mustache

desperately. So beautiful and all alone! At length he spoke to her. She

whirled upon him so suddenly that his hat fell off his head and rolled at

the feet of the onlooker.

"Your hat, Monsieur?" he said gravely, returning it.

Nora laughed maliciously. The author of the abortive flirtation fled down

to the body of the tram.

And now there was no one on top but Nora and her erstwhile jailer, whom

she did not recognize in the least.

* * * * *

"Mademoiselle," said the great policeman soberly, "this is a grave

accusation to make."

"I make it, nevertheless," replied Nora. She sat stiffly in her chair, her

face colorless, dark circles under her eyes. She never looked toward

Courtlandt.

"But Monsieur Courtlandt has offered an alibi such as we can not ignore.

More than that, his integrity is vouched for by the gentleman at his side,

whom doubtless Mademoiselle recognizes."

Nora eyed the great man doubtfully.

"What is the gentleman to you?" she was interrogated.

"Absolutely nothing," contemptuously.

The minister inspected his rings.

"He has annoyed me at various times," continued Nora; "that is all. And

his actions on Friday night warrant every suspicion I have entertained

against him."

The chief of police turned toward the bandaged chauffeur. "You recognize

the gentleman?"

"No, Monsieur, I never saw him before. It was an old man who engaged me."

"Go on."

"He said that Mademoiselle's old teacher was very ill and asked for

assistance. I left Mademoiselle at the house and drove away. I was hired

from the garage. That is the truth, Monsieur."

Nora smiled disbelievingly. Doubtless he had been paid well for that lie.

"And you?" asked the chief of Nora's chauffeur.

"He is certainly the gentleman, Monsieur, who attempted to bribe me."

"That is true," said Courtlandt with utmost calmness.

"Mademoiselle, if Monsieur Courtlandt wished, he could accuse you of

attempting to shoot him."

"It was an accident. His sudden appearance in my apartment frightened me.

Besides, I believe a woman who lives comparatively alone has a legal and

moral right to protect herself from such unwarrantable intrusions. I wish

him no physical injury, but I am determined to be annoyed by him no

longer."

The minister's eyes sought Courtlandt's face obliquely. Strange young man,

he thought. From the expression of his face he might have been a spectator

rather than the person most vitally concerned in this little scene. And

what a pair they made!

"Monsieur Courtlandt, you will give me your word of honor not to annoy

Mademoiselle again?"

"I promise never to annoy her again."

For the briefest moment the blazing blue eyes clashed with the calm brown

ones. The latter were first to deviate from the line. It was not agreeable

to look into a pair of eyes burning with the hate of one's self. Perhaps

this conflagration was intensified by the placidity of his gaze. If only

there had been some sign of anger, of contempt, anything but this

incredible tranquillity against which she longed to cry out! She was too

wrathful to notice the quickening throb of the veins on his temples.

"Mademoiselle, I find no case against Monsieur Courtlandt, unless you wish

to appear against him for his forcible entrance to your apartment." Nora

shook her head. The chief of police stroked his mustache to hide the

fleeting smile. A peculiar case, the like of which had never before come

under his scrutiny! "Circumstantial evidence, we know, points to him; but

we have also an alibi which is incontestable. We must look elsewhere for

your abductors. Think; have you not some enemy? Is there no one who might

wish you worry and inconvenience? Are your associates all loyal to you? Is

there any jealousy?"

"No, none at all, Monsieur," quickly and decidedly.

"In my opinion, then, the whole affair is a hoax, perpetrated to vex and

annoy you. The old man who employed this chauffeur may not have been old.

I have looked upon all sides of the affair, and it begins to look like a

practical joke, Mademoiselle."

"Ah!" angrily. "And am I to have no redress? Think of the misery I have

gone through, the suspense! My voice is gone. I shall not be able to sing

again for months. Is it your suggestion that I drop the investigation?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle, for it does not look as if we could get anywhere with

it. If you insist, I will hold Monsieur Courtlandt; but I warn you the

magistrate would not hesitate to dismiss the case instantly. Monsieur

Courtlandt arrived in Marseilles Thursday morning; he reached Paris Friday

morning. Since arriving in Paris he has fully accounted for his time. It

is impossible that he could have arranged for the abduction. Still, if you

say, I can hold him for entering your apartment."

"That would be but a farce." Nora rose. "Monsieur, permit me to wish you

good day. For my part, I shall pursue this matter to the end. I believe

this gentleman guilty, and I shall do my best to prove it. I am a woman,

and all alone. When a man has powerful friends, it is not difficult to

build an alibi."

"That is a reflection upon my word, Mademoiselle," quietly interposed the

minister.

"Monsieur has been imposed upon." Nora walked to the door.

"Wait a moment, Mademoiselle," said the prefect. "Why do you insist upon

prosecuting him for something of which he is guiltless, when you could

have him held for something of which he is really guilty?"

"The one is trivial; the other is a serious outrage. Good morning." The

attendant closed the door behind her.

"A very determined young woman," mused the chief of police.

"Exceedingly," agreed the minister.

Courtlandt got up wearily. But the chief motioned him to be reseated.

"I do not say that I dare not pursue my investigations; but now that

mademoiselle is safely returned, I prefer not to."

"May I ask who made this request?" asked Courtlandt.

"Request? Yes, Monsieur, it was a request not to proceed further."

"From where?"

"As to that, you will have to consult the head of the state. I am not at

liberty to make the disclosure."

The minister leaned forward eagerly. "Then there is a political side to

it?"

"There would be if everything had not turned out so fortunately."

"I believe that I understand now," said Courtlandt, his face hardening.

Strange, he had not thought of it before. His skepticism had blinded him

to all but one angle. "Your advice to drop the matter is excellent."

The chief of police elevated his brows interrogatively.

"For I presume," continued Courtlandt, rising, "that Mademoiselle's

abductor is by this time safely across the frontier."