It was after nine when the taxi wheeled around the crescent drive at
Belvoir. Carlota leaned forward, her sense of beauty thrilled at the
effect of the place in the full moonlight. It was modeled exactly, as
Mrs. Nevins loved to explain, after Diane de Poitiers’s love cote in
France, Chenonceaux.
The fête was in full swing. She did not see Ames anywhere, but told
one of the footmen who approached her that she was a singer on the
programme. He led the way back of the gay crowd in the flower-festooned
corridors to an inner court that had been transformed into an Italian
village en fête.
Standing at the head of a wide, curving staircase was Mrs. Nevins,
garbed as Vittoria Colonna, the noble lady who was Michelangelo’s
inspiration. Nathalie stood near, a silk domino only half concealing
her chic peasant dress. At sight of her Carlota caught her breath
involuntarily. Even as a child she had always loved the fêtes at the
Villa Tittani, and the distinguished guests who had flocked there
around the grand old Contessa. Here she was merely an unknown singer,
passing unnoticed through a throng of strangers. The whimsicality of
it touched her sense of humor and amused her. She was indeed Fiametta,
moving unknown among the villagers.
Jacobelli stood chatting with Count D’Istria, the ambassador. They were
almost within arm’s length of Carlota as she passed by them, unseen and
unseeing, her eyes seeking only for Ames.
“You are not overfond, then, of these society theatricals?” asked the
Count. “It is for an excellent object, the milk fund for Italy.”
Jacobelli lifted bored, deprecating eyebrows.
“It is torture to me, but what would you? The lady has a daughter with
a voice, and she will have none but Jacobelli’s opinion of its quality.
Therefore I come to-night to oblige. But, ah, Count, if you could but
hear my genius, my star of evening who will shortly, before another
season, burst into full splendor. You recall La Paoli?”
D’Istria nodded interestedly.
“Many times I have heard my father speak of her beauty and art. I have
myself been to her villa during her last years. She reigned there at
Tittani as an ex-empress might have done.”
“She was incomparable,” Jacobelli murmured contentedly. “Then possibly
you may recall the grandchild whom she adored, Bianca’s daughter.
Her father was the young artist from Florence whom Paoli befriended,
Peppino Trelango.”
The Count nodded and smiled. A child with eyes such as Del Sarto loved
to paint. Yes, he remembered her. Delightedly, then, the old maestro
launched into the romance of the old Contessa’s death, of how Maria
Roma had brought Carlota to America, of the Marchese’s interest in her,
and how Ogden Ward had insured her success with his patronage.
D’Istria shook his head at the mention of the financier.
“I would keep her out of his reach,” he advised. “She is too young to
parry the advances of such a man. Mind, I admire him greatly. He is a
power in the world, a very great patron of the arts if you will, but
likewise, Jacobelli, of the artistes. Arm’s length, I beg.”
“He will be here to-night.” Jacobelli scanned the crowd, his five feet
five overtopped by many. Suddenly his eyes glowed with interest, seeing
a newcomer enter the court enclosure. “Is that not Jurka? I have not
seen him since 1915. He was here on some government work, an attaché at
Washington. A very handsome fellow, isn’t he?”
D’Istria did not glance behind him. Arms folded, he stood almost at
attention, his lips compressed slightly, his eyes watching Mrs. Nevins
as she came down the wide staircase with Griffeth Ames.
“There is the type of man whom I admire,” he said. “He has life and
inspiration in his face, and he walks like one who has ridden the air.”
“I do not know him.” Jacobelli overlooked the stranger blandly.
“Casanova told me Mrs. Nevins is a collector of celebrities. This is
some youngster whose operetta she is to give a little try-out to-night,
his first chance. I shall leave as soon as the daughter finishes her
aria.”
But the Count appeared interested in the blond youngster, and merely
followed with his gaze the slim, distinguished figure of the Bulgarian
ex-attaché, as the latter moved through the throng.
The suite reserved for the singers and other entertainers was on the
second floor. Carlota resented the line of demarcation between the
professionals and the society participants, but Ames came to her as
soon as he could relinquish Mrs. Nevins to Jurka. He was so happy and
buoyant, she dared not say anything to curb or quell his enthusiasm.
“Forget them all, dear,” he whispered to her. “Think of what this may
mean for us both. I wish Casanova were here. She tried to get him, but
he hates these society round-ups, and I don’t blame him. Did you find
your dressing-room? I got one for you alone.”
After he had gone one of the maids assisted her to unpack and slip into
the court costume. There was a full-length mirror in the inner door.
She regarded her reflection in it gravely as the woman arranged her
curls, combing them into soft full clusters around her shoulders. The
deep, vivid color of the gown was strikingly becoming to her.
“You should have some jewels--” she began.
“They are all there, in my handbag,” Carlota directed. As she opened
the cases the maid gave a smothered exclamation of surprise, and
glanced sharply at this girl pupil of Ames, who, she had heard the
other servants say, had come from the Italian quarter in New York.
Her experience told her these were real jewels and worth thousands of
dollars.
“You will wear them all, miss?” she asked curiously, lifting the heavy
stomacher of gold links, delicate as certain fragile shells.
Carlota nodded and set the tiara on her head herself. The great
Zarathustra ruby in its center glowed and sparkled as if it held a
heart of fire. She held out her hands for the necklace.
“Do you like them?” she asked simply, smiling for the first time at the
maid. “They came from Italy and were my grandmother’s.”
“From Italy?” The woman straightened back her shoulders. “I am from
Averna myself. You know Averna, near Roma?”
“Ah, do I not!” Carlota clasped her hands suddenly to her throat, the
tears rising hot and quick to her lashes. Averna, the little tiny
village one might see from the end of the gardens, Averna with its
songs lifting on the evening air, and its little children clambering up
the long steep rocky road, the young goats tumbling around them. “I--my
home was near there, the Villa Tittani.”
The woman knelt at her feet, folding her hands to her lips rapturously,
and back on her feet in an instant, calm-faced.
“See how small the sea and world are,” she said. “I do not work here. I
am an extra for to-night, and I find a face that has looked on Averna.
I know Tittani well--”
A rap came at the door and Ames’s voice, calling to her to hurry.
Carlota sighed, drawn back from the old days.
“Lay out the peasant dress, please, and don’t forget the scarf for the
head. It is hand-embroidered on old linen in red and yellow.”
Before the operetta she ventured to steal out of a small balcony from
the upper corridor, overlooking the inner court below. Although it was
still early, they were dancing in one of the smaller rooms. She saw
Ames enter with others, and recognized Nathalie even in her domino. All
of the débutantes who were to sing wore them. And was it not as Dmitri
warned her? He was a success with these people, she thought, wistfully.
He was to reap a triumph to-night, and she had been foolish enough to
risk her whole career for his, to jeopardize her future merely to make
his operetta a success.
The woman from Averna had struck a chord of memory that unnerved her.
She felt the lonely sorrow of Fiametta, the princess in disguise,
seeking her love at the festa, and finding him only as the dancing
Harlequin.
Ames sought her once more before the overture. The maid had thrown
a black silk domino around her when she was ready to go down to
the improvised stage, and she drew the hood closely over her head,
concealing the tiara.
“All right?” he whispered confidently. “Keep your nerve, dear. It all
depends on you, after all. Fiametta carries the action and sympathy.”
She smiled back into his eyes in silence, compliant to his wishes,
eager for his success. Nathalie pressed past them with several other
girls, and laid her hand on his arm.
“We’re looking everywhere for you, Griff!” she cried. “Mamma’s so
afraid you might forget the supper-dance afterwards. It’s only for a
few, and we want you to stay. Will you, just for me?”
He passed down the long stairs with them and she heard no more, but as
she followed the maid down to the stage, a flood of fiery rebellion
swept over her, and waiting for the music, there was the look of Paoli
in her pose and flashing eyes.
D’Istria and Jurka had avoided each other by tacit mutual consent.
One long look they had interchanged, and the ambassador’s eyebrow had
raised ever so slightly. He had given no sign of recognition, but even
to Jacobelli the enmity between the two men was unmistakable. He would
have been more interested in it, possibly, had not Ogden Ward arrived
late, and he remained with him, telling him of Casanova’s offer.
The first strains of opening music caught his ear. Ames did not call
it an overture. It was not pretentious enough for that. It was merely
a prelude, a mingled fantasy of Italian village-fête melodies, the
harmonies that spring involuntarily from the very life-blood of a
people. Jacobelli listened in alert surprise. This unknown composer had
caught the secret and had woven it into his opera. He hunted covertly
for his programme. The name on it, “Griffeth Ames,” meant nothing to
him nor did that of the soprano, Paola Roma. Had he been suspicious,
Carlota’s twirling about of names to suit her fancy might have given
him a clue, but as it was, his professional interest in the composer
absorbed him, and he passed the name by.
In the opening duet between Peppino and Nedda he suffered visibly,
whispering to D’Istria.
“Ah, money, what crimes are committed in thy name! They choke art,
these people; they strangle it to death with cash and coupons.”
The action of the operetta was swift. Peppino had come to the castle
with his daily catch. His sweetheart follows him, jealous of his
admiration for the princess and his lingering in her garden. From the
bower window in the tower, Fiametta watches him, and, half-hidden,
hears him sing his love for her, “a certain star beyond all love of
mine!” Peppino promises Nedda she shall be his choice at the festa
the following day, and their betrothal announced, and she leaves,
satisfied. The princess lingers in the garden after they have gone and
sings “Cerca d’Amore,” the quest of love.
It was on this aria that Ames based his greatest hope, and even as he
led the orchestra, he sensed back of him the thrill which ran over the
audience at the entrée of Carlota. He himself stared up at her in blank
amazement. She had worn her silk domino up to the final moment and
he had not seen her costume. But now, as she lifted her voice in the
opening strains of the “Quest” song, he stared and marveled.
Mrs. Nevins lifted her pince-nez and never lowered it until the curtain
fell on the interlude. Then she remarked to the woman next her in tones
which demanded an explanation from Mr. Ames, “That girl is wearing a
fortune in real jewels!”
Jacobelli was near-sighted. Hindered by the crowd from a clear view
of the stage, the Fiametta motif did not warn him of what was about
to happen, but the first notes of Carlota’s voice shocked him into
attention. She was singing as never before. The rôle appealed to her,
the lonely little princess planning her disguise at the fête, seeking
her fisher-boy love. Her rendering of the aria was a sensation. He
caught a glimpse of D’Istria’s face, of Ward’s, and trembled with
emotion. In front of him was a large, stately grande dame with opera
glasses. He reached for them out of her hand imperatively.
“You permit, if you please? I cannot see. It is most imperative that I
see, you understand?”
She stared at him ineffectually, but Jacobelli was far too engrossed to
notice her. He had recognized Carlota through the lenses, and the color
rose thickly to his face. The tragic truth burst upon him. His star
had been stolen from him by this young unknown composer, his flower
of genius was already plucked before his eyes, and flaunted at this
miserable society fête as the pupil of another.
Even while he stood with the glasses held close to his eyes, a hand
reached over his shoulder, a peremptory hand, accustomed to obedience,
and took the glasses from him.
“You will pardon me,” Count Jurka said gently. “It is very urgent that
I see closely.”
Impotently Jacobelli glared at him. The Count’s face was absolutely
expressionless. Possibly Georges might have guessed that his master
was laboring under sudden excitement from the extreme pallor which
accentuated his resemblance to a statue. Calm, youthful, and blond,
he seemed the embodiment of possibly Endymion or Ganymede, a slender,
effete godling, bored, as Dmitri had said, by the ennui of satiety.
Ward’s face as he watched Carlota wore an amused, satirical expression.
During the interlude Jacobelli started to speak to him, but was
silenced by the “Hush” of those nearest him. Ames’s music held society
under a spell, and Mrs. Nevins was conscious of a strange mingling of
satisfaction and resentment over the girl Carlota daring to appear with
an array of jewels not one woman in the crowd could have equaled.
The climax of the operetta was the stabbing of Fiametta at the feast.
Nathalie sang Nedda with an immature insouciance that was in character
with the rôle. Peppino was sung by Jolly Allan, a young bachelor
with a rich, reckless sort of voice. When he danced with the masked
princess at the festa, Nedda stopped him in a jealous fury, demanding
why he had neglected her. He answered with the “Quest of Love,” the
beautiful waltz song of the princess. Together, as they sing it, they
dance, until suddenly Nedda stabs her unknown rival, and as she dies in
Peppino’s arms, she is unmasked and the people recognize their princess.
The curtain fell in a tumult of acclamation. Count Jurka was already
bowing low over the hand of his hostess. It was with the utmost regret
he must take his leave thus early. Only the opportunity of attending
her fête could have brought him out from town. He congratulated her
on securing the services of--ah, what was the young girl’s name--Miss
Roma? He stepped back to make room for Ward.
Jacobelli had broken away from the crowd, and was finding his way to
the dressing-rooms beyond the balcony. Ames was already there before
him, proud and joyous, forgetting everything but Carlota and her
amazing triumph. At the entrance to the green and ivory salon off
the balcony, the maestro encountered Nathalie, and poured forth his
suspicions to her.
“This young singer, this girl, what do you call her?”
“You mean Miss Roma?” She smiled at him innocently. “Why, she’s a pupil
of Mr. Ames, I believe, from the Italian quarter back of where he lives
on Washington Square.”
Jacobelli stared at her. The memory of the duet from “Bohème” came back
to him with a jolt of pain. It had been her voice, then, that day. He
had not been mistaken.
“Ah, but everybody is crazy!” he exclaimed heatedly. “She is my pupil,
Carlota Trelango, the greatest coming singer of the age! Where is she?
See, I will confront her. I will show him up and prove that she is my
pupil.”
* * * * *
With her hand drawn through his arm, Ames was leading Carlota down the
opposite flight of stairs into the court when she suddenly drew back.
“Please, I can’t go down there,” she whispered, pleadingly. “Let me go
home at once. I--I am not well; I want to leave now.”
Through the crowd came Ward towards them leisurely, with the abstracted
air that was his habitually, but he had already seen her, and she
shrank back from his amused, twisted smile that seemed to degrade all
that this had meant to her. Before Griffeth could detain her, she had
turned and sped back up the crimson carpeted staircase into the long
salon, and there came face to face with Jacobelli.
“Ingrate!” he gasped explosively, beating the air with both hands at
sight of her. He wheeled about on Ames. “You--you say you are the great
teacher--the maestro, when you take my greatest pupil from me--from
Jacobelli!”
“It’s a damned lie!” Ames retorted shortly. “She is not your pupil.
I’ve been teaching her for weeks, months, myself.”
“But she knows nobody here in America; it is utterly impossible!” cried
the old maestro. “For two years I have taught her all I know. You know
not what you say.”
Ames caught the glances of those around them and bit his lip to
keep back the words he longed to hurl at this wild-eyed, explosive
individual.
“Pardon,” he said curtly. “Miss Roma is my affianced wife. Now I am
sure you will give me credit for being aware of her identity.”
“Listen to him!” Jacobelli’s rage boiled over. He appealed to Nathalie
and her little group of girl friends, to Mrs. Nevins as she approached
them with Ward. “Mr. Ward, I beseech--I demand that you assist me in
denouncing this impostor. Is not Carlota Trelango my pupil and the
granddaughter of the great Margherita Paoli? Does she not make her
début at the Opera next season under Casanova?”
Mrs. Nevins moved forward deliberately, and addressed Carlota.
“Won’t you kindly end this distressing scene, Miss Roma, and leave as
soon as possible? I thank you for your services.”
Carlota stood an instant, hesitant and proud. Ames held the little cold
hand on his arm in a close grasp. Head up, he was her champion, but it
was a question now which adversary to engage first, so many assailed
her. In Nathalie’s blue eyes was lurking a challenging ridicule as her
gaze met his.
And suddenly D’Istria appeared at the head of the staircase with
several friends. He came forward into the salon and bowed low over the
hand Carlota extended to him wonderingly, gratefully.
“Oh, Count D’Istria,” she cried eagerly. “You are here!”
Perhaps D’Istria himself sensed the meaning of the silent group around
her. He answered gently, deferentially.
“After these years, signorina, it is with the greatest pride for our
Italy that I greet you to-night. The last time you were weaving chains
of rosebuds at the old Contessa’s knee in the garden of Tittani. Now, I
find you wearing a crown of laurel on your own little head.”
Mrs. Nevins caught her breath swiftly, but Jacobelli murmured over and
over, pacing the length of the salon alone, as if it gave him the only
inward relief, the one word,
“Ingrate!”