GENOA.
"Ah, well, the world is discreet;
There are plenty to pause and wait;
But here was a man who set his feet
Sometimes in advance of fate.
"Never rode to the wrong's redressing
A worthier paladin.
Shall he not hear the blessing--
'Good and faithful enter in?'"--WHITTIER.
A month passed by. In his outer life Carlo went through the series
of farewell performances at New York, attended Sardoni's wedding, and
travelled back to Italy. In his inner life he fought a terrible
battle and came out conqueror.
No further details of Francesca's marriage had as yet reached him to
relieve his misery of ignorance and suspense. Apparently both Clare
and Enrico shrank from touching on so difficult a subject, and all he
had received by way of answer to his letter was a copy of the _Roma_
from Enrico, containing the same paragraph which Mlle. de Caisne had
enclosed.
The shrewd-looking official, who presided at the bureau in the hall
of one of the hotels at Genoa, sat speculating to himself as he saw
the much-talked-of baritone pass into the breakfast-room on the
morning after Merlino's Company had landed in Italy.
There was something about Donati's face which he could not
understand: it was not the face one would have expected in a man who,
at six-and-twenty, had achieved a striking success, and who was said
to be the finest baritone in Europe. Sorrow had not hardened him or
soured him, but it had added a sort of depth to his expression, and
just now he bore always the look of one who had imposed on himself a
strong restraint.
The official was pleased when, on leaving the breakfast-room, Carlo
came to the _bureau_ to buy some stamps, and he adroitly seized the
opportunity to prefer a request.
"Will you write your name in the visitors' book, signor?" he said.
"Every one in the place is looking forward to your appearance
to-night, you will see the theatre will be packed from floor to
ceiling! Your full name, if you will favor us, signor; the autograph
will be valuable."
Carlo smiled a little at the thought that his very commonplace
handwriting should be in demand; then, happening to glance up the
page at the names of the other visitors, his heart suddenly leapt
into his mouth as he read, "Il Conte Carossa, e Contessa Carossa."
The names were both apparently written in the Count's writing. He
turned quickly to the _concierge_.
"Count Carossa is still in the hotel?"
"Yes, signor; that is to say, he is out just at this moment, but he
has taken his rooms for a week. The Contessa is in the _salotto_. I
saw her go in just now."
For a moment he hesitated. Francesca was here under the same roof
with him! Dared he seek her out? Dared he hear from her own lips
the whole truth? When he had landed on the previous evening he had
sent off another urgent letter imploring Enrico to write, or, if
possible, to come and see him at Genoa, where they had accepted a
brief engagement; but now to be told that Francesca was close to him
threw him completely off his balance, and an impulse scarcely
resistible drove him towards the _salotto_. Should he not enter that
room? Should he not see her at least for this once? And yet every
throbbing pulse within him warned him not to do so, proved to him
beyond dispute that for Francesca's sake and for his own he had far
better not seek her out.
With a struggle that seemed to him bitter as death, he forced himself
to pass by that closed door, and to go upstairs to his room. He was
not left long in peace, for Gigi--who had grown into a very manly
little fellow of nearly seven years old, and who had been greatly
improved by two years at a good school in New York--came bounding in
with an eager request.
"_Zio caro_, don't you remember you promised to take me to Villa
Pallavicini this morning? I guess we'll never be likely to get a
finer day, and I do so dreffly want to see the fountains!"
Though sick at heart, Carlo would not refuse the little fellow's
petition, and he dragged himself over to Pegli, trying hard to enter
into Gigi's happiness, listening to his raptures over the beautiful
gardens, and smiling politely when their conductor--a wizen,
shrewd-looking, little man--made time-honored jokes, and tried to be
facetious. Neither the glorious views of sea and mountain, nor the
lovely groves of ilex, olive, eucalyptus, and pine trees, nor the
glowing color of the aloes and rhododendrons, could rouse in him that
day the slightest pleasure. Gigi chattered merrily as they rowed in
a little boat under charge of a broad-shouldered, kindly old boatman
through the stalactite cave, and gave a shout of delight when, as
they passed on, and came in sight of the fountains, they saw one of
the gardeners carrying out the usual practical joke of turning the
watering-hose in the direction of some visitors, who fled with
good-natured laughter.
"Look, _zio caro!_ oh, do look!" cried the child, clapping his hands.
And Carlo, glancing round, saw, only a stone's-throw from him, on the
bank, a little group of visitors, and among them Count Carossa and
Francesca.
She did not see him, and, after one long look, he turned away with a
sick, dizzy feeling, and knew that he was answering the boatman's
remarks at random, and vaguely wondered whether, after the first
shock, that sight would grow more bearable to him.
How he lived through that day he never quite knew, but he had learnt
the truth of the words which he had spoken to Anita at Philadelphia
that "Nothing is impossible;" and when the evening came, though
Sardoni had dined with him, and stayed afterwards talking of
Domenica's perfections, and of his anxiety about his father's first
sight of her, Carlo had betrayed nothing, but seemed as ready as ever
to sympathize with his friend's affairs.
So engrossed was the tenor with his own happiness that he was amazed
when, that evening at the theatre, Anita drew him aside, and, with
tears in her eyes, begged for his advice.
"You are Carlo's friend!" she said, in low, hurried tones; "for God's
sake tell me what to do! The Contessa Carossa is sitting in the
stalls! Shall I tell Carlo before he goes on?"
Sardoni stared.
"Who in Heaven's name, may the Contessa Carossa be?" he asked.
"_Insomma!_ I forgot you had not been told! He kept it from you
because he would not have you troubled at the time of your wedding.
She is Francesca Britton, the girl he was to have married! He heard
when we were at Philadelphia that she had become the wife of Count
Carossa."
Sardoni gave an inarticulate exclamation of rage and regret.
"He must be told!" he said. "A sudden shock like that might make him
break down. I will tell him myself!"
Nita thanked him. She was dressed in the coquettish costume of
Carmen, but for the first time Sardoni noticed a softened look about
her face. He saw that she had begun at last really to care for her
brother, and that apparently Comerio, who was also engaged at Genoa
during the summer season, had not regained his old influence with
her. This, however, was but the first night of the engagement,--he
wondered greatly whether her strength would hold out to the end. And
then he thought wrathfully of Francesca Britton, and remembered with
compunction how he had talked of nothing for the last few weeks but
his own happiness; and with regret, and perplexity, and admiration
for his friend all mingled, he knocked at the dressing-room door,
determined to speak out plainly and prepare his companion for what
awaited him.
Carlo had just dismissed Sebastiano, and was fully equipped in the
picturesque costume of Escamillo, the Toreador, with its green velvet
jacket and knickerbockers faced with gold, broad red-and-gold sash,
tan-colored gaiters, and red flag thrown across the left shoulder.
There was no time to be lost, and Sardoni began abruptly.
"I have just been talking to your sister, Val. She thought, and I
think, too, that you ought to be prepared beforehand. Count Carossa
and his wife are in the theatre."
An exclamation of wonder and dismay escaped Carlo. He began to pace
the room in terrible agitation.
"Why did you keep your trouble from me, Val?" said Sardoni,
reproachfully. "And what, in Heaven's name, can have made any woman
forsake a man like you?"
Carlo turned upon him with a fierce gesture.
"Not one word against her!" he cried. "She was free--quite free!
And what am I to deserve her, indeed?--a stage-singer with a
tarnished reputation!"
"What! You think, then, it was that slander?" ejaculated Sardoni,
understanding better why Carlo had kept all from him during this
month.
"I don't know!--I can't tell! For God's sake, Jack, don't talk, or I
think I shall go mad!"
Again he walked to and fro, struggling with the thoughts which rushed
in wild confusion through his brain. Why did Francesca come to hear
him sing? It was so altogether unlike her to do so under the
circumstances. Had she come to prove her indifference?--or did she
still care for him, and snatch at this chance of seeing him?--or was
she too much in awe of her husband to decline to go to the theatre?
Each thought seemed to him almost equally intolerable. But time was
passing, and he must somehow manage to get himself in hand. As he
walked he prayed, and as he prayed he became once more willing to
face whatever was sent. For he wasted no time in vain questionings
as to why this particular trouble should have come to him, and how it
could possibly work for the general good. His strength lay in a
habit of taking even the smaller details of life as God's ordering,
and in a firm conviction that no man is ever set to do anything that
is beyond his strength.
Francesca had married Count Carossa. That being so, he must and
could learn to bear the thought. Nothing was impossible!
"Forgive me, dear old fellow, for speaking sharply!" he said, turning
back to Sardoni. "After all, Jack, I shall know now if she is happy
or not; and if all is well with her, why nothing else matters much."
Sardoni bit his lip; when he could see clearly again he found that
Carlo was putting on his Spanish hat, and preparing to go to the
wings. He went with him, choosing a position from which he could
watch his friend's entrance and reception.
The part of Escamillo, though small, suited him admirably, nor could
any scene have been better chosen for his reappearance in Italy than
the picturesque entry of the bull-fighter. Sardoni wondered greatly
how the Contessa Carossa felt down there in the stalls, as she
watched with the rest the entrance of the torchlight procession, and
saw the crowd group itself and look expectantly towards the back of
the stage, till, amid a chorus of "Hurrah for brave Escamillo!" the
slight, graceful figure in Toreador costume advanced through a little
lane of torches.
Carlo's fame had preceded him, and the Genoese audience greeted him
warmly; he took off his black velvet hat and bowed with the mingled
dignity and simplicity of manner which made him at once revered and
loved by so many. Then, quickly turning from the homage of the
audience to the business of his part, and resuming the bold, genial
bearing of Escamillo, he drained the wine-cup handed to him, tossed
it across the stage to one of the chorus, and broke forth into the
well-known Toreador Song.
His beautiful voice, the vigor of his acting, the imaginative power
conveyed by each look and gesture, held the audience spell-bound, and
Sardoni marvelled how, under the circumstances, he could sing the
refrain of--
"Bear thou in mind, when combat thee elates,
Two bright eyes fondly regard,
For thee a fond heart waits, Toreador."
At the close of the first verse the theatre rang with shouts of
"Bravo." And then once again came the graphic description of the
bull-fight, till, by mere gesture and expression, he brought the
whole scene vividly before the audience. Most of them had heard
Carmen before, and had seen the baritone more or less energetically
flap his red flag. But Carlo actually made them feel the suspense
and excitement of the real contest. He surpassed himself, and when
once more the refrain had been sung the whole house rose, and with
frantic cheering gave the new baritone an ovation. Not one of the
applauders guessed that the song had been to the singer a torturing
effort, a mockery almost intolerable; or dreamed how his heart was
aching as he stood there acknowledging their thanks. Not till the
end did he dare to look towards the place where they had told him
Francesca was sitting; but, as he stood close to the footlights,
bowing his acknowledgments, he ventured one keen, searching glance;
he would, at least, learn if she looked well and happy, would try to
gauge the Count's character.
But he had expected too much of himself; all was confusion; he could
only see that the Count was frantically applauding him, and that
Francesca's eyes were shining and her cheeks glowing. After that
brief glance the whole house swam before him, and the only thing for
him to do was to get through, as quickly as might be, his brief
dialogue with Carmen, and march off amid the greetings of his
comrades while the orchestra once more played the Toreador air. The
moment he was behind the scenes his brisk, blithe step changed, there
was a sort of relief in being able to relax the strain he had put on
himself, yet never, even in the first shock of the news of
Francesca's marriage, had he felt such an overwhelming sense of loss
and loneliness as now when he had actually seen her sitting beside
her husband in the theatre. His first impulse was to lock himself
into his dressing-room, but something made him hesitate; if he were
alone he should think, and if he thought, he should be lost; the only
chance of his being able to keep his faculties clear for the rest of
the opera lay in avoiding thought as far as possible. After a minute
he forced himself to go to the green-room and to join in the
conversation, and there he remained through the interval, till the
call-boy summoned him again, and Sebastiano handed him a striped
scarf instead of the red one. Flinging it across his shoulder he
stepped on to the stage, changed himself with an effort into the
Toreador with his careless geniality, received with cool indifference
Don José's indignation, and, when challenged to fight, gave a
masterly representation of southern passion, springing like a tiger
on his foe, and with drawn knife, fighting desperately. All was
speedily over, and again he waited behind the scenes to sing the
refrain of the Toreador Song in the distance.
"You look tired, Donati," remarked Caffieri. "Confoundedly hot,
isn't it?"
He assented, though all the time he was shivering from head to foot.
It was doubly hard to sing those words in cold blood off the stage.
But he got through them somehow, and leaning wearily against the wall
of the passage waited till the cries of "Donati!" rose to a roar, and
then he pulled himself together, crossed the stage, and stepped out
before the curtain to accept the homage which just then meant to him
so little.
"What must be borne can be borne," he said to himself again and
again; "and at least Francesca is happy."
And now the end of the opera was drawing near, and his part was
almost over. Nita watched him with mingled wonder and sympathy as
they waited side by side for their last entrance: he was grave and
silent, and the chorus from the stage of "Viva Escamillo!" jarred
upon him she fancied, yet, though the wistful look in his eyes told
plainly of his trouble he was still ready as usual to think of other
people.
"There is a horrible draught here!" he exclaimed, "you will take
cold, Nita."
And so saying he wrapped his red scarf round her white shoulders,
snatching it off again adroitly when they advanced on to the stage.
Somehow she had never felt so near to him as at that minute. She
knew so well what it was that made him tremble as, with his arm round
her, he sang the pathetic little farewell of the Toreador, knew so
well what it cost him to utter the words, "If thou lovest me,
Carmine, them shalt smile by-and-bye; thou shalt be proud of me."
Together they were just singing their mutual avowal of love, the
house was hushed to catch the exquisitely blended voices in the last
soft repetition of "Yes, I love thee!" when from the gallery there
rose a hoarse cry--the most terrible cry that can be raised in any
great gathering--the cry of "Fire!"
With a shriek Nita tore herself away and rushed from the stage, and
in one instant it seemed to Carlo that the whole house was in an
uproar. He shouted an assurance that there was no danger; he begged
Marioni to go on with the opera; but it was all in vain. Then he
stood like a statue in the front of the stage, though all around him
his companions were flying, though women were shrieking, though
Marioni dragged him by the arm, imploring him to save himself while
yet there was time. He shook himself free, and remained gazing down
at the seething mass of people in the stalls, spite of all the
confusion keeping his eye steadily on Count Carossa and his wife,
till at length, with a pang of wrath and astonishment he saw the
Count force a way through the crowd for a beautiful fair-haired girl
beside him who seemed to be almost fainting with terror, and leave
Francesca to take care of herself.
But indignation soon gave place to a thrill of wild exultation. At
least it was his part to shield her now,--her husband had left her,
and that time which he had thought might possibly come in some dim
future had arrived--he might serve her--might, perhaps, save her from
death.
He rushed to the side of the stage, leapt down into the deserted
orchestra, dashed aside the music-stands which impeded his progress,
cleared the barrier at a bound, and, with the agility which was
natural to him increased by the fearful excitement, forced his way to
Francesca.
"Carlino!" she cried, joy, fear, and relief mingling in her tone as
she snatched his hands in hers; "I knew you would come. I couldn't
go with Count Carossa!"
He dropped her hands, perplexed, troubled, utterly surprised. That
Francesca under the circumstances should have spoken thus, seemed to
him wholly unlike her. The marriage had been a forced one,
undoubtedly, but yet how doubly strange of her to come and hear him
that night; how immensely she must have altered to greet him now with
such words. Terror must surely have made her forget all else.
"Don't be afraid," he said, very gently, yet with a manner so
restrained that she instantly noticed it; "even if this is not wholly
a false alarm our best hope of escaping unhurt is just to stay here
quietly. See, if you don't mind my holding you like this I think I
can prevent your being pushed by the crowd."
"Carlo," she said, quickly, relapsing into English, "are you angry
with me?"
"I? How can you ask such a question? I am not angry at all, not in
the least."
"I couldn't help it; I couldn't go with the Count, and not know what
had happened to you. Are you thinking of what people will say?"
"No, that matters very little. But I fear you did wrong to stay."
"Wrong, when I love you?"
"For God's sake be silent!" he cried, in a voice wrung with pain. "I
dare not let you speak such words to me. Let us say no more at all.
Perhaps the way will soon be clear, and I can take you back to the
Count. I don't understand how he could possibly leave you behind; he
is very much to be blamed."
Her eyes were full of tears.
"You must not be vexed with him," she said, falteringly; "it was my
doing. I would not go, and it was right that he should think first
of his wife; she was almost fainting."
"His wife!" gasped Carlo. "His wife! Francesca! speak! speak! tell
me what you mean!"
His manner terrified her.
"Why, he married Flora Britton, that pretty Scotch cousin of mine;
she had been staying with us since her mother's death."
For answer Carlo, regardless of all else, caught her in his arms, and
had the panic in the theatre caused their death he would scarcely
have murmured, for in that moment of exquisite relief, in that
restoration to him of all he thought he had lost, he lived through
whole years of rapture.
"My own! my darling! Can you ever forgive me?" he cried.
"I don't understand," sobbed Francesca; "but nothing matters since
you love me still; nothing matters now we are together once more."
He thrust his hand impatiently into the Toreador costume, and drawing
forth an envelope held it towards her.
"I can't tell you," he said; "but look at these, and you will perhaps
forgive me."
With blank astonishment she looked at the cutting from the _Times_
announcing her own marriage to Count Carossa.
"Ah, who could have done so cruel a thing!" she exclaimed. "This
never could have been in the _Times_ at all, or, of course, we should
have heard of it. Who could have had it printed like this on
purpose?"
"I see it now!" said Carlo. "It must have been Comerio's vengeance!"
His wrath was almost swallowed up in the strange perception that
began to steal over him of how completely evil had defeated its own
ends. Comerio's vengeance had actually been the means of winning for
himself Anita's sympathy and love.
"The hymn we sang at Flora's wedding," observed Francesca, "and her
monogram 'F. B.' just like mine--how horribly it must all have fitted
in! This letter, too!--who wrote it?"
"It is from Mlle. de Caisne; she was engaged at the San Carlo, but
I'll never believe that she had anything to do with that false
notice. Comerio was singing at the San Carlo, too. He must have
induced her to write the account and send the papers, and himself
have inserted that thing. I don't like Elise de Caisne, but she
would never have lent herself to a fraud like that."
"How horribly the people cry out near the doors!" exclaimed
Francesca, able now for the first time to realize a little what was
going on round her. "Oh, Carlo! how frightened I should be if you
were not here with me!"
The panic had evidently not been without some cause, for clouds of
smoke came from the back of the stage, and a strong smell of burning
filled the place. It was quite apparent that whatever fire there was
must be behind the scenes, but Carlo, with good reason, feared for
Francesca the dangers of the crowd far more than the danger of the
flames.
They were now almost alone in the stalls, and the space between them
and the stage was perfectly clear, for every one had fled from the
source of danger and had rushed to the doors, where a horrible
struggle was going on.
"Is Captain Britton in Genoa?" asked Carlo.
"Yes, we are all here in the _Pilgrim_--Uncle George, and Kate, and
Clare. Oh, how frightened they will be if they hear of this panic
before we get out!"
"Where had they arranged to meet you?"
"Uncle George and father were to call for me at the hotel where
Renato and Flora are staying. It was such a chance that I came at
all, for you know how little father likes theatre-going. But they
came to the yacht this morning and begged to have me for the day, and
said they had taken places for _Carmen_, and father never likes to
say 'No,' and so I came, not knowing till we landed that Flora had
planned it all on purpose that I should hear you sing."
"They will be terribly anxious about you! Do you think you could be
brave enough to walk into this smoke, which is driving every one else
away? I believe we should have a very fair chance of escaping
through the orchestra."
"Yes, yes--let us come!" she cried. "I am not afraid of anything
with you!"
He wrapped her shawl round her, cleared the way for her towards the
orchestra, lifted her over the barrier, and, quickly following
himself, advanced cautiously through the smoke-filled passages.
Before long he stumbled up against Sardoni.
"You here, Jack!" he exclaimed. "Can we get out? How did it happen?"
"You can get out all right," said Sardoni. "The fire is almost got
under; they are working away splendidly with the fire-engines. I was
just coming to look for you. How it started no one knows, unless it
was from one of the matches flung down when they were smoking in the
camp-scene,--and yet I don't see how that can have been. You'll get
none of the fun here; come and look at it."
"Not now; Miss Britton's people will be anxious; we must get out as
quickly as may be. There is no crowd at the stage-door, I suppose."
"A fire-engine or two blocking the way, perhaps--nothing worse. But
what in Heaven's name has happened, Val?"
He glanced for an instant at the sweet, girlish face, which, not long
before, he had watched with indignant wonder.
"Comerio's vengeance!" said Carlo, in a low voice; then, turning
back, he said, "Francesca, this is my friend Sardoni, of whom you
have often heard."
Francesca shook hands with him warmly.
"And how about Madame Merlino?" she asked. "Is she quite safe?"
"I took her back to the hotel with my wife," said Sardoni; "and I
believe on the way back I passed Count Carossa."
"He was obliged to try and get his wife out quickly," explained
Francesca. "Oh, I hope Flora wasn't hurt in the crowd! Do let us
get back to them!"
"Come with us, Jack, if you don't mind," said Carlo; and together
they made their way through the crowded streets to the hotel, which
was not far off.
In the entrance-hall they found a number of people clustered round
the poor little Contessa, who was lying on the floor quite
unconscious, while the Count, who had had his arm broken in the crush
round the door of the theatre, received no sympathy at all from
Captain Britton, who had just come ashore from the yacht, and was
beside himself with anger and anxiety.
"'She would not come!'" he stormed. "Of course not! An English girl
has sense enough not to make for the door in a panic! And you ought
to have stayed with her! How dare you take my daughter out, and then
forsake her like a----"
Mr. Britton hastily interposed.
"John, don't waste time in talking!" he said. "Let us come round
quickly, and see if we can't find her."
"_Gran Dio!_" cried the Count, starting forward, "here she is!"
Captain Britton turned, and saw that Francesca was just entering the
hotel, leaning on the arm of an actor gorgeously attired in Spanish
costume. It flashed upon him, even at that moment, that it was a
strange reversal of things which should bring him to scold a Count
for his desertion and to thank an opera-singer for rescuing his
daughter.
"My dear, dear child!" he exclaimed, bending down to kiss her; "we
have only just heard of the fire--we have been terribly anxious about
you! You are not hurt?"
"Not a bit!" said Francesca. "Carlo made me stay quite still, and
then helped me out through the orchestra and by the stage-door----"
"Carlo!" exclaimed Captain Britton, in amazement. And, glancing
round, he saw that the "Toreador" was shaking hands with Mr. Britton,
and answering as best he might the torrent of questions which
assailed him on all sides.
"It is Signor Donati, the new baritone, of whom all the world
speaks!" said one of the little crowd. "Via! I tell you I should
know him anywhere. The shops are full of his photographs."
"And he has saved the pretty signorina from the fire!" exclaimed
another.
Captain Britton, forgetting for once in his genuine glow of emotion
that many eyes were watching him, drew near to the hero of the
evening.
"Carlo, my dear boy!" he exclaimed, seizing his hand in a hearty
grip; "I can never thank you enough--never!"
Something in his throat choked him, and Mr. Britton, having suggested
that rumors might possibly have reached the _Pilgrim_, and that Clare
and Kate might be anxious, he quickly availed himself of the chance
of escaping from so trying a scene, and, with a parting shake of the
hand, and a "To-morrow!" spoken _sotto voce_, which conveyed much to
Carlo, he drew his daughter's arm within his, and led her away from
the hotel.