A CHAT WITH ROSA
"And when I sat down it was gone, and the precious Mr. Watts had also
vanished."
"Oh!" exclaimed Rosa. That was all she said. It is impossible to deny
that she was startled, that she was aghast. I, however, maintained a
splendid equanimity.
We were sitting in the salon of her flat at the Place de la Concorde
end of the Rue de Rivoli. We had finished lunch, and she had offered
me a cigarette. I had had a bath, and changed my attire, and eaten a
meal cooked by a Frenchman, and I felt renewed. I had sunned myself in
the society of Rosetta Rosa for an hour, and I felt soothed. I forgot
all the discomforts and misgivings of the voyage. It was nothing to
me, as I looked at this beautiful girl, that within the last
twenty-four hours I had twice been in danger of losing my life. What
to me was the mysterious man with the haunting face of implacable
hate? What to me were the words of the woman who had stopped me on the
pier at Dover? Nothing! A thousand times less than nothing! I loved,
and I was in the sympathetic presence of her whom I loved.
I had waited till lunch was over to tell Rosa of the sad climax of my
adventures.
"Yes," I repeated, "I was never more completely done in my life. The
woman conspirator took me in absolutely."
"What did you do then?"
"Well, I wired to Calais immediately we got to Amiens, and told the
police, and did all the things one usually does do when one has been
robbed. Also, since arriving in Paris, I have been to the police
here."
"Do they hold out any hope of recovery?"
"I'm afraid they are not sanguine. You see, the pair had a good start,
and I expect they belong to one of the leading gangs of jewel thieves
in Europe. The entire business must have been carefully planned.
Probably I was shadowed from the moment I left your bankers'."
"It's unfortunate."
"Yes, indeed. I felt sure that you would attach some importance to
the jewel-case. So I have instructed the police to do their utmost."
She seemed taken aback by the lightness of my tone.
"My friend, those jewels were few, but they were valuable. They were
worth--I don't know what they were worth. There was a necklace that
must have cost fifteen thousand pounds."
"Yes--the jewels."
"Well! Is it not the jewels that are missing?"
"Dear lady," I said, "I aspire to be thought a man of the world--it is
a failing of youth; but, then, I am young. As a man of the world, I
cogitated a pretty good long time before I set out for Paris with your
jewels."
"You felt there was a danger of robbery?"
"Exactly."
"And you were not mistaken." There was irony in her voice.
"True! But let me proceed. A man of the world would see at once that a
jewel-case was an object to attract the eyes of those who live by
their wits."
"I should imagine so."
"Therefore, as a man of the world, I endeavored to devise a scheme of
safeguarding my little cargo."
"And you--"
"I devised one."
"What was it?"
"I took all the jewels out of the case, and put them into my various
pockets; and I carried the case to divert attention from those
pockets."
She looked at me, her face at first all perplexity; gradually the
light broke upon her.
"Simple, wasn't it?" I murmured.
"Then the jewels are not stolen?"
"Certainly not. The jewels are in my pockets. If you recollect, I said
it was the jewel-case that was stolen."
I began to smile.
"Mr. Foster," she said, smiling too, "I am extremely angry."
"Forgive the joke," I entreated. "Perhaps it is a bad one--but I hope
not a very bad one, because very bad jokes are inexcusable. And here
are your jewels."
I put on the expression of a peccant but hopeful schoolboy, as I
emptied one pocket after another of the scintillating treasures. The
jewels lay, a gorgeous heap, on her lap. The necklace which she had
particularly mentioned was of pearls. There were also rubies and
emeralds, upon which she seemed to set special store, and a brooch in
the form of a butterfly, which she said was made expressly for her by
Lalique. But not a diamond in the collection! It appeared that she
regarded diamonds as some men regard champagne--as a commodity not
appealing to the very finest taste.
"I didn't think you were so mischievous," she laughed, frowning.
To transfer the jewels to her possession I had drawn my chair up to
hers, and we were close together, face to face.
"Ah!" I replied, content, unimaginably happy. "You don't know me yet.
I'm a terrible fellow."
"Think of my state of mind during the last fifteen minutes."
"Yes, but think of the joy which you now experience. It is I who have
given you that joy--the joy of losing and gaining all that in a
quarter of an hour."
She picked up the necklace, and as she gazed at the stones her glance
had a rapt expression, as though she were gazing through their depths
into the past.
"Mr. Foster," she said at length, without ceasing to look at the
pearls, "I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are in Paris. Shall
you stay till I have appeared at the Opéra Comique?"
"I was hoping to, and if you say you would like me to--"
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I do." And she looked up.
Her lovely eyes had a suspicion of moisture. The blood rushed through
my head, and I could feel its turbulent throb-throb across the temples
and at my heart.
I was in heaven, and residence in heaven makes one bold.
"You really would like me to stay?" I almost whispered, in a tone that
was equivalent to a declaration.
Her eyes met mine in silence for a few instants, and then she said,
with a touch of melancholy:
"In all my life I've only had two friends--I mean since my mother's
death; and you are the third."
"Is that all?"
"You don't know what a life like mine is," she went on, with feeling.
"I'm only a prima donna, you know. People think that because I can
make as much money in three hours as a milliner's girl can make in
three years, and because I'm always in the midst of luxuries, and
because I have whims and caprices, and because my face has certain
curves in it, and because men get jealous with each other about
kissing my hand, that therefore I've got all I want."
"Certain curves!" I burst out. "Why, you're the most beautiful
creature I ever saw!"
"There!" she cried. "That's just how they all talk. I do hate it."
"Do you?" I said. "Then I'll never call you beautiful again. But I
should have thought you were fairly happy."
"I'm happy when I'm singing well," she answered--"only then. I like
singing. I like to see an audience moved. I must sing. Singing is my
life. But do you know what that means? That means that I belong to the
public, and so I can't hide myself. That means that I am
always--always--surrounded by 'admirers.'"
"Well?"
"Well, I don't like them. I don't like any of them. And I don't like
them in the mass. Why can't I just sing, and then belong simply to
myself? They are for ever there, my 'admirers.' Men of wealth, men of
talent, men of adventure, men of wits--all devoted, all respectful,
all ready to marry me. Some honorable, according to the accepted
standard, others probably dishonorable. And there is not one but whose
real desire is to own me. I know them. Love! In my world, peculiar in
that world in which I live, there is no such thing as love--only a
showy imitation. Yes, they think they love me. 'When we are married
you will not sing any more; you will be mine then,' says one. That is
what he imagines is love. And others would have me for the gold-mine
that is in my throat. I can read their greed in their faces."
Her candid bitterness surprised as much as it charmed me.
"Aren't you a little hard on them?" I ventured.
"Now, am I?" she retorted. "Don't be a hypocrite. Am I?"
I said nothing.
"You know perfectly well I'm not," she answered for me.
"But I admire you," I said.
"You're different," she replied. "You don't belong to my world. That's
what pleases me in you. You haven't got that silly air of always being
ready to lay down your life for me. You didn't come in this morning
with a bunch of expensive orchids, and beg that I should deign to
accept them." She pointed to various bouquets in the room. "You just
came in and shook hands, and asked me how I was."
"I never thought of bringing any flowers," I said awkwardly.
"Just so. That's the point. That's what I like. If there is one thing
that I can't tolerate, and that I have to tolerate, it's 'attentions,'
especially from people who copy their deportment from Russian
Archdukes."
"There are Archdukes?"
"Why! the air is thick with them. Why do men think that a woman is
flattered by their ridiculous 'attentions?' If they knew how sometimes
I can scarcely keep from laughing! There are moments when I would
give anything to be back again in the days when I knew no one more
distinguished than a concierge. There was more sincerity at my
disposal then."
"But surely all distinguished people are not insincere?"
"They are insincere to opera singers who happen to be young,
beautiful, and rich, which is my sad case. The ways of the people who
flutter round a theatre are not my ways. I was brought up simply, as
you were in your Devonshire home. I hate to spend my life as if it was
one long diplomatic reception. Ugh!"
She clenched her hands, and one of the threads of the necklace gave
way, and the pearls scattered themselves over her lap.
"There! That necklace was given to me by one of my friends!" She
paused.
"Yes?" I said tentatively.
"He is dead now. You have heard--everyone knows--that I was once
engaged to Lord Clarenceux. He was a friend. He loved me--he died--my
friends have a habit of dying. Alresca died."
The conversation halted. I wondered whether I might speak of Lord
Clarenceux, or whether to do so would be an indiscretion. She began
to collect the pearls.
"Yes," she repeated softly, "he was a friend."
I drew a strange satisfaction from the fact that, though she had said
frankly that he loved her, she had not even hinted that she loved him.
"Lord Clarenceux must have been a great man," I said.
"That is exactly what he was," she answered with a vague enthusiasm.
"And a great nobleman too! So different from the others. I wish I
could describe him to you, but I cannot. He was immensely rich--he
looked on me as a pauper. He had the finest houses, the finest
judgment in the world. When he wanted anything he got it, no matter
what the cost. All dealers knew that, and any one who had 'the best'
to sell knew that in Lord Clarenceux he would find a purchaser. He
carried things with a high hand. I never knew another man so
determined, or one who could be more stern or more exquisitely kind.
He knew every sort of society, and yet he had never married. He fell
in love with me, and offered me his hand. I declined--I was afraid of
him. He said he would shoot himself. And he would have done it; so I
accepted. I should have ended by loving him. For he wished me to love
him, and he always had his way. He was a man, and he held the same
view of my world that I myself hold. Mr. Foster, you must think I'm in
a very chattering mood."
I protested with a gesture.
"Lord Clarenceux died. And I am alone. I was terribly lonely after his
death. I missed his jealousy."
"He was jealous?"
"He was the most jealous man, I think, who ever lived. His jealousy
escorted me everywhere like a guard of soldiers. Yet I liked him even
for that. He was genuine; so sincere, so masterful with it. In all
matters his methods were drastic. If he had been alive I should not be
tormented by the absurd fears which I now allow to get the better of
me."
"Fears! About what?"
"To be frank, about my debut at the Opéra Comique. I can imagine," she
smiled, "how he would have dealt with that situation."
"You are afraid of something?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I don't know. I merely fear.... There is Carlotta Deschamps."
"Miss Rosa, a few minutes ago you called me your friend." My voice was
emotional; I felt it.
"I did, because you are. I have no claim on you, but you have been
very good to me."
"You have the best claim on me. Will you rely on me?"
We looked at each other.
"I will," she said. I stood before her, and she took my hand.
"You say you fear. I hope your fears are groundless--candidly, I can't
see how they can be otherwise. But suppose anything should happen.
Well, I shall be at your service."
At that moment some one knocked and entered. It was Yvette. She
avoided my glance.
"Madame will take her egg-and-milk before going to rehearsal?"
"Yes, Yvette. Bring it to me here, please."
"You have a rehearsal to-day?" I asked. "I hope I'm not detaining
you."
"Not at all. The call is for three o'clock. This is the second one,
and they fixed the hour to suit me. It is really my first rehearsal,
because at the previous one I was too hoarse to sing a note."
I rose to go.
"Wouldn't you like to come with me to the theatre?" she said with an
adorable accent of invitation.
My good fortune staggered me.
After she had taken her egg-and-milk we set out.