THE THING IN THE CHAIR
On the following night I sat once more in the salon of Rosa's flat.
She had had Sir Cyril removed thither. He was dying; I had done my
best, but his case was quite hopeless, and at Rosa's urgent entreaty I
had at last left her alone by his bedside.
I need not recount all the rush of incidents that had happened since
the tragedy at the Villa des Hortensias on the previous evening. Most
people will remember the tremendous sensation caused by the judicial
inquiry--an inquiry which ended in the tragical Deschamps being
incarcerated in the Charenton Asylum. For aught I know, the poor
woman, once one of the foremost figures in the gaudy world of
theatrical Paris, is still there consuming her heart with a futile
hate.
Rosa would never refer in any way to the interview between Deschamps
and herself; it was as if she had hidden the memory of it in some
secret chamber of her soul, which nothing could induce her to open
again. But there can be no doubt that Deschamps had intended to murder
her, and, indeed, would have murdered her had it not been for the
marvellously opportune arrival of Sir Cyril. With the door of the room
locked as it was, I should assuredly have been condemned, lacking Sir
Cyril's special knowledge of the house, to the anguish of witnessing a
frightful crime without being able to succor the victim. To this day I
can scarcely think of that possibility and remain calm.
As for Sir Cyril's dramatic appearance in the villa, when I had learnt
all the facts, that was perhaps less extraordinary than it had seemed
to me from our hasty dialogue in the underground kitchen of Deschamps'
house. Although neither Rosa nor I was aware of it, operatic circles
had been full of gossip concerning Deschamps' anger and jealousy, of
which she made no secret. One or two artists of the Opéra Comique had
decided to interfere, or at any rate seriously to warn Rosa, when Sir
Cyril arrived, on his way to London from the German watering-place
where he had been staying. All Paris knew Sir Cyril, and Sir Cyril
knew all Paris; he was made acquainted with the facts directly, and
the matter was left to him. A man of singular resolution, originality,
and courage, he had gone straight to the Rue Thiers, having caught a
rumor, doubtless started by the indiscreet Deschamps herself, that
Rosa would be decoyed there. The rest was mere good fortune.
In regard to the mysterious connection between Sir Cyril and Rosa, I
had at present no clue to it; nor had there been much opportunity for
conversation between Rosa and myself. We had not even spoken to each
other alone, and, moreover, I was uncertain whether she would care to
enlighten me on that particular matter; assuredly I had no right to
ask her to do so. Further, I was far more interested in another, and
to me vastly more important, question, the question of Lord Clarenceux
and his supposed death.
I was gloomily meditating upon the tangle of events, when the door of
the salon opened, and Rosa entered. She walked stiffly to a chair,
and, sitting down opposite to me, looked into my face with hard,
glittering eyes. For a few moments she did not speak, and I could not
break the silence. Then I saw the tears slowly welling up, and I was
glad for that. She was intensely moved, and less agonizing experiences
than she had gone through might easily have led to brain fever in a
woman of her highly emotional temperament.
"Why don't you leave me, Mr. Foster?" she cried passionately, and
there were sobs in her voice. "Why don't you leave me, and never see
me again?"
"Leave you?" I said softly. "Why?"
"Because I am cursed. Throughout my life I have been cursed; and the
curse clings, and it falls on those who come near me."
She gave way to hysterical tears; her head bent till it was almost on
her knees. I went to her, and gently raised it, and put a cushion at
the back of the chair. She grew calmer.
"If you are cursed, I will be cursed," I said, gazing straight at her,
and then I sat down again.
The sobbing gradually ceased. She dried her eyes.
"He is dead," she said shortly.
I made no response; I had none to make.
"You do not say anything," she murmured.
"I am sorry. Sir Cyril was the right sort."
"He was my father," she said.
"Your father!" I repeated. No revelation could have more profoundly
astonished me.
"Yes," she firmly repeated.
We both paused.
"I thought you had lost both parents," I said at length, rather
lamely.
"Till lately I thought so too. Listen. I will tell you the tale of all
my life. Not until to-night have I been able to put it together, and
fill in the blanks."
And this is what she told me:
"My father was travelling through Europe. He had money, and of course
he met with adventures. One of his adventures was my mother. She lived
among the vines near Avignon, in Southern France; her uncle was a
small grape-grower. She belonged absolutely to the people, but she was
extremely beautiful. I'm not exaggerating; she was. She was one of
those women that believe everything, and my father fell in love with
her. He married her properly at Avignon. They travelled together
through France and Italy, and then to Belgium. Then, in something less
than a year, I was born. She gave herself up to me entirely. She was
not clever; she had no social talents and no ambitions. No, she
certainly had not much brain; but to balance that she had a heart--so
large that it completely enveloped my father and me.
"After three years he had had enough of my mother. He got restive. He
was ambitious. He wanted to shine in London, where he was known, and
where his family had made traditions in the theatrical world. But he
felt that my mother wouldn't--wouldn't be suitable for London. Fancy
the absurdity of a man trying to make a name in London when hampered
by a wife who was practically of the peasant class! He simply left
her. Oh, it was no common case of desertion. He used his influence
over my mother to make her consent. She did consent. It broke her
heart, but hers was the sort of love that suffers, so she let him go.
He arranged to allow her a reasonable income.
"I can just remember a man who must have been my father. I was three
years old when he left us. Till then we had lived in a large house in
an old city. Can't you guess what house that was? Of course you can.
Yes, it was the house at Bruges where Alresca died. We gave up that
house, my mother and I, and went to live in Italy. Then my father sold
the house to Alresca. I only knew that to-day. You may guess my
childish recollections of Bruges aren't very distinct. It was part of
the understanding that my mother should change her name, and at Pisa
she was known as Madame Montigny. That was the only surname of hers
that I ever knew.
"As I grew older, my mother told me fairy-tales to account for the
absence of my father. She died when I was sixteen, and before she died
she told me the truth. She begged me to promise to go to him, and said
that I should be happy with him. But I would not promise. I was
sixteen then, and very proud. What my mother had told me made me hate
and despise my father. I left my dead mother's side hating him; I had
a loathing for him which words couldn't express. She had omitted to
tell me his real name; I never asked her, and I was glad not to know
it. In speaking of him, of course she always said 'your father', 'your
father', and she died before she got quite to the end of her story. I
buried my mother, and then I was determined to disappear. My father
might search, but he should never find me. The thought that he would
search and search, and be unhappy for the rest of his life because he
couldn't find me, gave me a kind of joy. So I left Pisa, and I took
with me nothing but the few hundred lire which my mother had by her,
and the toy dagger--my father's gift--which she had always worn in her
hair.
"I knew that I had a voice. Everyone said that, and my mother had had
it trained up to a certain point. I knew that I could make a
reputation. I adopted the name of Rosetta Rosa, and I set to work.
Others have suffered worse things than I suffered. I made my way. Sir
Cyril Smart, the great English impresario, heard me at Genoa, and
offered me an engagement in London. Then my fortune was made. You know
that story--everyone knows it.
"Why did I not guess at once that he was my father? I cannot tell. And
not having guessed it at once, why should I ever have guessed it? I
cannot tell. The suspicion stole over me gradually. Let me say that I
always was conscious of a peculiar feeling towards Sir Cyril Smart,
partly antagonistic, yet not wholly so--a feeling I could never
understand. Then suddenly I knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that
Sir Cyril was my father, and in the same moment he knew that I was his
daughter. You were there; you saw us in the portico of the
reception-rooms at that London hotel. I caught him staring at the
dagger in my hair just as if he was staring at a snake--I had not worn
it for some time--and the knowledge of his identity swept over me like
a--like a big wave. I hated him more than ever.
"That night, it seems, he followed us in his carriage to Alresca's
flat. When I came out of the flat he was waiting. He spoke. I won't
tell you what he said, and I won't tell you what I said. But I was
very curt and very cruel." Her voice trembled. "I got into my
carriage. My God! how cruel I was! To-night he--my father--has told me
that he tried to kill himself with my mother's dagger, there on the
pavement. I had driven him to suicide."
She stopped. "Do you blame me?" she murmured.
"I do not blame you," I said. "But he is dead, and death ends all
things."
"You are right," she said. "And he loved me at the last. I know that.
And he saved my life--you and he. He has atoned--atoned for his
conduct to my poor mother. He died with my kiss on his lips."
And now the tears came into my eyes.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, and the pathos of her ringing tones was
intolerable to me. "You may well weep for me." Then with abrupt change
she laughed. "Don't you agree that I am cursed? Am I not cursed? Say
it! say it!"
"I will not say it," I answered. "Why should you be cursed? What do
you mean?"
"I do not know what I mean, but I know what I feel. Look back at my
life. My mother died, deserted. My father has died, killed by a mad
woman. My dear friend Alresca died--who knows how? Clarenceux--he too
died."
"Stay!" I almost shouted, springing up, and the suddenness of my
excitement intimidated her. "How do you know that Lord Clarenceux is
dead?"
I stood before her, trembling with apprehension for the effect of the
disclosure I was about to make. She was puzzled and alarmed by the
violent change in me, but she controlled herself.
"How do I know?" she repeated with strange mildness.
"Yes, how do you know? Did you see him die?"
I had a wild desire to glance over my shoulder at the portrait.
"No, my friend. But I saw him after he was dead. He died suddenly in
Vienna. Don't let us talk about that."
"Aha!" I laughed incredulously, and then, swiftly driven forward by an
overpowering impulse, I dropped on my knees and seized her hands with
a convulsive grasp. "Rosa! Rosa!"--my voice nearly broke--"you must
know that I love you. Say that you love me--that you would love me
whether Clarenceux were dead or alive."
An infinite tenderness shone in her face. She put out her hand, and to
calm me stroked my hair.
"Carl!" she whispered.
It was enough. I got up. I did not kiss her.
A servant entered, and said that some one from the theatre had called
to see mademoiselle on urgent business. Excusing herself, Rosa went
out. I held open the door for her, and closed it slowly with a sigh of
incredible relief. Then I turned back into the room. I was content to
be alone for a little while.
Great God! The chair which Rosa had but that instant left was not
empty. Occupying it was a figure--the figure of the man whose portrait
hung on the wall--the figure of the man who had haunted me ever since
I met Rosa--the figure of Lord Clarenceux, whom Rosa had seen dead.
At last, oh, powers of hell, I knew you! The inmost mystery stood
clear. In one blinding flash of comprehension I felt the fullness of
my calamity. This man that I had seen was not a man, but a malign and
jealous spirit--using his spectral influences to crush the mortals
bold enough to love the woman whom he had loved on earth. The death of
Alresca, the unaccountable appearances in the cathedral, in the train,
on the steamer--everything was explained. And before that coldly
sneering, triumphant face, which bore the look of life, and which I
yet knew to be impalpable, I shook with the terrified ague of a
culprit.
A minute or a thousand years might have passed. Then Rosa returned. In
an instant the apparition had vanished. But by her pallid, drawn face
and her gray lips I knew that she had seen it. Truly she was cursed,
and I with her!