Ward had handed over the details of the dinner to his Japanese butler,
Ishigaki, who presided over the town house of the millionaire.
In spite of her dislike of him and reluctance to accept favors, Carlota
felt a thrill of almost childish excitement over the novelty of it all
as she entered the upper salon which had been turned into a private
banqueting-hall for the occasion.
The walls were hung with dull-gold, Oriental draperies, weighted down
with embroidery. A glow from hidden shaded lights left the room in a
twilight haze of amethyst and saffron. The air was fragrant with faint,
strange perfumes. Brazier lamps burned somberly in stone lanterns half
revealed behind red and gold lacquered screens. On the surface of a
pool sunken in the center of the teakwood dining-table, half-opened
lotus buds floated, and curious, iridescent-plumaged waterfowl stood
amongst them, dazed and hesitating, goldfish darting at their feet, and
tiny turtles scrambling aimlessly up the sides of the pool.
“I hoped it might amuse you,” Ward said when he found Carlota bending
over the table in delight. He had never seen her in evening dress
before, and Maria had spared no pains or thought for this that might be
her night of conquest.
“You shall be Juliette in her triumph,” the old singer had said. “Cloth
of silver with a veil of lace from the Colonna wedding chests. And
the very cap of seed pearls which your grandmother bought from the
old antique dealer in Verona near the bridge as you leave the palace.
And just a girdle of filigree silver, set in pearls with tassels of
them. But for your throat, nothing at all. It is encircled by beauty
quite enough. First I thought to let you wear her chain of rubies with
the black cross. Then the necklace of opals. She loved them. It came
from Russia and was part of the great Catherine’s treasure. One of the
Orloffs gave it to Paoli. I would not have you wear anything to-night
that might bring the evil eye upon you.”
Carlota had laughed at her earnest insistence. She felt no interest in
Ward himself, only a deep-rooted resentment against the circumstances
which forced her to accept his hospitality when she disliked him. Even
now she merely smiled at his words, and turned eagerly to greet the
old Marchese. The latter’s gray eyebrows arched with approval when he
beheld the result of Maria’s costuming.
“So soon you grow into your kingdom, mia carina,” he exclaimed half
teasingly, half musingly. “Behold, yesterday, Mr. Ward, it was a child
whom I cajoled with chocolate almonds. I do assure you, she was the
utter gourmand for them, rummaging into my pockets like a squirrel, and
now we bow to her sovereignty, is it not so?”
“The bloom fulfills the promise of the bud,” Ward answered gravely,
and Carlota’s eyes held a startled wonderment as he gazed down at her.
It seemed to-night as if his glance even held a covert challenge that
aroused every element of resentment in her nature. Throughout the
dinner she was reticent and unresponsive. The Marchese, as always, was
so absorbed in his little anecdotes and sallies of wit that Ward’s
attentions escaped him. Maria observed, but gave no sign of annoyance;
rather, she was filled with pride at the influence of her beloved child
over so great a man as Ward. Jacobelli ate and drank as a connoisseur,
paying little attention to the conversation about him, but relaxing
under the mellowing influence of Ward’s wines and Ishigaki’s solicitous
ministrations. Finally he caught Carlota’s refusal to sing as her host
urged her after they rose from dinner.
“It is no time to-night to show caprice, cara mia,” he exclaimed
pompously. “Come, I would have you sing and prove to Mr. Ward how soon
you will triumph at the Opera.”
Carlota’s eyes sought the Marchese’s in swift appeal, but he merely
nodded to her encouragingly above the lifted rim of his glass of old
Amontillado.
“Miss Trelango is only afraid that you will put her through your
professional paces, Jacobelli,” Ward interposed easily. “Show the
Marchese and Signora Roma those new photographs in the east gallery of
the excavations at Rhodopis. You will find the emeralds we took from
the royal mummies there also. Ishigaki will open the case for you.”
Jacobelli smiled understandingly, and led the way. The Japanese moved
noiselessly about the salon, turning off a light here and there
until only those in the stone lanterns gave a nebulous glow. When
they were alone, Ward moved one of the lacquered screens from its
place, disclosing a tall panel of solid gold embroidery set in ebony.
Flamingoes moved through sunlit marshes.
“This will amuse you,” he said, stepping upon a convex spring set
in the floor. The panel slipped silently up. “This is my favorite
music-room.” He led the way through the narrow door into the interior.
It was domed with stained glass, a fan fretwork above the Empire grand
piano assuring perfect acoustics. The walls were in flat dull gold,
with peacocks and gray apes in conventionalized designs, hand-painted.
A rock crystal vase held irises, gold and purple. The light filtered
cunningly through the stained glass in rays of twilight splendor. “I
have kept this room for you the first time you should sing to me alone.”
Carlota closed her eyes as she seated herself at the piano, the memory
of the little garret studio of Ames a vivid, poignant hurt to her
pride. He to whom she had given all her faith and love, and he had held
it so lightly, where to this man no effort was too great to win her
favor.
“Jacobelli tells me you have gained. Sing what you love best yourself.”
And instead of choosing some grand-opera aria, she sang “O Sole Mio,”
as she had learned it from Ames. Over their lunches in the studio, he
would sing it to her, lunches of bread and fruit and salad, glorified
by love and song. Out in the east gallery Jacobelli caught the air and
frowned, but the Marchese inclined his head to listen contentedly. As
the last notes ended, Ward bent over her suddenly, his arms around her,
his lips seeking hers dominantly. Crushed in his powerful embrace, she
strove to free herself, but Ward had waited two years for this moment,
and she felt her strength leave her as he held her. The crystal vase
crashed behind him as he tripped backwards over the slender stand, her
hand holding his face from her.
“Maria!” she called. “Maria! Come to me!”
“Let her alone,” warned Jacobelli, placing himself at the door of the
gallery. “She must learn poise and command of herself.”
Maria glared at him, infuriated.
“Mother of God, when the child needs me!” she cried, and sped along the
salon to the inner room. The Marchese’s glance met that of the maestro
with troubled questioning.
“Surely, he would not attempt anything to alarm her. You do not
think--” The old Italian spread out his stout, expressive hands.
“I do not think when I am with such a man as Ogden Ward. He is a law to
himself.”
Veracci’s expression changed instantly. From the easy, genial old
diplomat there seemed to fall over his face the mask of the soldier.
“No man is that,” he answered. “I would hold him accountable if he has
annoyed the child.”
Before Maria had reached them, Carlota had released herself. She turned
to him with clenched hands, her face white with anger.
“Take me home, tanta!” she exclaimed. “I--I am not well.”
Ward regarded them both with amused speculation.
“You are temperamental, my dear, perhaps a trifle gauche also, too much
the gamine in your play.” He held out one hand to show the scratch that
ran like a scarlet thread along the skin. “Tell Jacobelli I say it is
time to prepare for her début.”
Carlota stood with her back to the piano, her eyes filled with quick
tears, Maria’s caressing hand on her arm to check her.
“I do not need your permission,” she said passionately. “I have the
voice and I will go to Casanova myself, and tell him who I am. He will
hear me. And I will pay you back everything. You do not know that I can
easily. I have my grandmother’s jewels--”
“But, my poor foolish one,” cried Maria, “Casanova would not give you
standing-room in his chorus if you went to him without the backing of
money and patronage.”
“Then I will go back to Italy. Where is the Marchese, Maria?” She spoke
with sudden quietness and dignity. “I am sorry, Mr. Ward. Doubtless the
fault is mine. I do not seem to have learned my part according to the
rôle expected of me.”
Ward bowed as she passed him, his own face tense with repression. Out
in the long gallery Jacobelli waited, detaining the Marchese over the
collection of emeralds. Carlota pleaded a sudden faintness to account
for her departure and he accompanied them down to Jacobelli’s waiting
car, returning for a final glass of his favorite cordial in Ward’s
library.
“You are not only the art lover supreme,” the old gentleman said
genially, ensconcing himself in a deep armchair, “but likewise you know
how to select the rare, the unusual. Before I had the enjoyment of our
personal acquaintance, I had heard of you as an eccentric, that you
carried about in your pockets loose pearls worth thousands, merely to
touch and gaze on them when you were in the critical moment of some
great financial deal. Is it so?”
Ward smiled non-committally.
“I have collected pearls amongst other things.”
“Then perhaps you noticed the cap our sweet protégée wore to-night,
the Juliette mode, a network of pearls? That is a bit of very delicate
craftsmanship, sixteenth-century work. Margherita Paoli’s collection
was thought marvelous in her day. Every piece has its own history. She
left it intact for Carlota.”
“Where is it?” The unwinking, light gray eyes of the financier watched
every shade of expression on his guest’s face.
“I was not in the confidence of the Contessa,” responded the Marchese
suavely, almost regretfully, as he touched the ash from his cigarette
tip and watched it fall on the curled leaf of gold repoussé.
Carlota leaned her head back on the suède cushion in Jacobelli’s car,
gazing out at the Avenue’s lights as they flashed by. It had been
raining, and they glowed through the wet glass in prismatic hues like
in a spectrum. Maria’s arm was close about her, but she was silent,
inwardly frightened and disturbed at the dénouement to the dinner.
But Jacobelli was elated and highly amused. He occupied the uptown
seat himself, and sat with a hand resting on each knee, complacent and
benignant.
“Cara mia, I salute!” he exclaimed happily. “You are an actress as well
as a singer. You could not possibly have entertained him better or
interested him more piquantly.”
“I did not try to interest him,” Carlota replied, wearily. “I hate him
and the look in his eyes.”
She drew in her breath sharply with a tremor of dread, and returned the
quick, understanding pressure of Maria’s hand. But the maestro merely
smiled at them both, smiled until his round, plump face seemed like a
caricature of himself sketched in upturned half-moons of mirth.
“That is quite all right,” he assured her. “You should be proud that
so great a man is attracted by your genius. So soon as you have signed
your first contract, my dear, and made your début, then you may refuse
to see him, if you like, if not before. What is the look in his eyes
to you? Thousands will gaze at you so. You must learn to accept homage
gracefully. Ward is a stepping-stone to success. To-morrow I shall see
Casanova for you as he ordered.”
Carlota closed her eyes as the car drew up under the heavy
porte-cochère at the Saint Germain apartments. Its rim of electric
lights was the sole illumination on the dark side street at that hour.
“No, I shall not come up with you,” protested Jacobelli. “Do not
tempt me, signora. I shall overeat if you set before me one of those
delightful suppers of yours, and, besides, the child must rest. We may
get a hearing to-morrow and she needs all her strength. Sleep well,
Carlota. Remember, smother the emotion that cripples your work.”
She did not speak until they reached their apartment, and Maria laid
her hands on her shoulders to look closely into her eyes under the
shaded lights.
“Ah, my dear one, they have hurt you to-night,” she sighed. “You are
not ready yet, not old enough to manage these men. Some day it will
be as nothing to you, their whims and notions, their mad passions and
threats. A man in love is the most helpless, pitiful thing in all the
world, never, never dangerous. You have him at your mercy. What did he
say to you?”
Carlota slipped out of her velvet cloak tiredly.
“I hardly know. It was so sudden and horrible, the touch of his hands
on my flesh, and his face close to mine. He was a dog to take advantage
of my being there as his guest--”
“Oh, hush! What did he say to you?” urged Maria shrewdly.
“Nothing at all. He asked me to sing, and when I had finished he seized
me in his arms and tried to kiss me.”
“I should not have left you alone. Opportunity makes the thief. It is
Jacobelli’s fault. He must have known that Ward desired a chance of
speaking to you. But it is all nothing, cara mia, nothing at all. It
was certain he would fall in love with you. No man could help it,
but he must be taught some gems are priceless. He did not ask you any
questions, then, about yourself, about the Paoli collection or the
jewels you wore?”
Carlota looked at her wonderingly.
“Of course not. Why should he?”
“I do not want any one to know they are here in America, out of the
Tittani vaults. Nobody is aware of it as yet excepting yourself and the
Marchese. He helped me with the customs when we came in, he and the
delightful Palmieri. But even to Palmieri they were merely jewels. He
did not know their histories.”
Carlota watched her anxiously, a quick reaction of tenderness and
solicitude for Maria sweeping over her, and making her forgetful of her
own trouble.
“You’re worried, dear. Why?” she asked.
“Why?” Maria laughed. “Because I am doubtless a superstitious old fool.
Paoli always said there was a curse about the rubies and pearls, rubies
for the blood of the people, pearls for the tears they shed. I wish we
had not brought them.”