PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT
Day by day for many days we went over to Monte Carlo, why, I can
scarcely tell. All visitors to Nice drift there as if by the natural
law of gravitation, and we were no exception. Even though our memories
of the Sign of the Seven Sins were painful on account of poor Reggie’s
mysterious death, we nevertheless found distraction in the Rooms, the
crowds, and the music. Sometimes Gerald would act as escort, and at
other times we went alone after luncheon and risked a few louis on the
tables with varying success. We met quite a host of people we knew,
for the season was proceeding apace, and the nearness of the Carnival
attracted our compatriots from all over Europe.
And as the days passed my eyes were ever watchful. Truth to tell, Monte
Carlo had an attraction for me, not because of its picturesqueness or
its play, but because I knew that in that gay, fevered little world
there lived and moved the one man who held my future in his hands.
In the Rooms, in the “Paris,” in the Place, and in the Gardens I
searched for sight of him, but, alas! always in vain. I bought the
various visitors’ lists, but failed to discover his name as staying at
any of the villas or hotels. Yet I knew he was there, for had I not
seen him smile upon that woman who was my rival?
The papers continued to comment upon the mystery surrounding poor
Reggie’s tragic death, yet beyond a visit from the United States
Consul, who obtained a statement from us regarding his friends in
Philadelphia and took possession of certain effects found in his room,
absolutely nothing fresh transpired.
It was early in February, that month when Nice puts on its annual
air of gayety in preparation for the reign of the King of Folly;
when the streets are bright with colored decorations, great stands
are erected in the Place Massena, and the shops of the Avenue de la
Gare are ablaze with carnival costumes in the two colors previously
decided upon by the fêtes committee. Though Nice may be defective from
a sanitary point of view and her authorities churlish towards foreign
visitors, nevertheless, in early February it is certainly the gayest
and most charming spot on the whole Riviera. The very streets are
full of life and movement, sweet with the perfume of roses and violets
and mimosa, and at a time when the rest of Europe is held frost-bound
summer costumes and sunshades are the mode, while men wear their straw
hats and flannels upon that finest of all sea-walks, the palm-planted
Promenade des Anglais.
Poor Reggie’s brother, a doctor in Chicago, had arrived to obtain a
personal account of the mystery, which, of course, we gave. Gerald also
conducted him to the grave in the English Cemetery, whereon he laid a
beautiful wreath and gave orders for a handsome monument. Then, after
remaining three days, he returned to Genoa and thence by the North
German Lloyd to America.
We became, meanwhile, frequent guests at the Villa Fabron, dining there
often, and being always received cordially by the old millionaire.
The secretary, Barnes, appeared to me to rule the household, for he
certainly placed himself more in evidence than his employer, and
I could see that the relations between Gerald and this factotum
of his father were somewhat strained. He was a round-faced man of
about thirty-five, dark, clean-shaven, with a face that was quite
boyish-looking, but with a pair of small eyes that I did not like. I
always distrust people with small eyes.
From his manner, however, I gathered that he was a shrewd, hard-headed
man of business, and even Gerald himself had to admit that he fulfilled
the duties of his post admirably. Of course, I came into contact with
him very little. Now and then we met on the Promenade or in the Quai
St. Jean Baptiste, and he raised his hat in passing, or he would
encounter us at the Villa when we visited there, but beyond that I had
not spoken with him a dozen words.
“He has the face of a village idiot with eyes like a Scotland Yard
detective,” was Ulrica’s terse summary of his appearance, and it was an
admirable description.
On the Sunday afternoon when the first Battle of Confetti was fought
we went forth in our satin dominoes of mauve and old gold--the colors
of that year--and had glorious fun pelting all and sundry with paper
confetti or whirling serpentines among the crowd in the Avenue de
la Gare. Those who have been in Nice during Carnival know the wild
gayety of that Sabbath, the procession of colossal cars and grotesque
figures, the ear-splitting bands, the ridiculous costumes of the
maskers, the careless, buoyant fun, and the good humor of everybody in
that huge cosmopolitan crowd. Gerald was with us, as well as another
young American named Fordyce, whom we had known at home and who was now
staying at the Métropole over at Cannes. With our sacks containing the
confetti slung over our shoulders and the hoods of our bright dominoes
drawn over our heads and wearing half-masks of black velvet, we mixed
with the gay crowd the whole of that afternoon, heartily participating
in the fun.
I confess that I enjoyed, and shall always, I hope, enjoy, the Nice
Carnival immensely. Many constant visitors condemn it as a tawdry
tinsel show, and leave Nice for a fortnight in order to escape the
uproar and boisterous fun, but after all, even though the air of
recklessness would perchance shock some of the more puritanical in
our own land, there is, nevertheless, an enormous amount of harmless,
healthy fun to be derived from it. It is only soured spinsters and the
gouty who really object to Carnival. The regular visitor to the Riviera
condemns it merely because it is good form to condemn anything vulgar.
They once enjoyed it, until its annual repetition became wearisome.
After the fight with confetti, during which our hair and dominoes got
sadly tumbled, we struggled through the crowd to the hotel, and while
Gerald went along to the café outside the Casino to wait for us we
dressed.
Quite a host of people dined at the Villa Fabron that evening,
including several pretty English girls. A millionaire never lacks
friends. Old Benjamin Keppel was something of a recluse, and it was
not often that he sent out so many invitations, but when he gave a
dinner he spared no expense, and that in honor of Carnival was truly a
gastronomic marvel. The table was decorated with mauve and old gold,
the Carnival colors, and the room, draped with satin of the same
shades, presented a mass of blended hues particularly striking.
The old millionaire headed the table, and in his breezy, open-hearted
manner made everyone happy at once. Both Ulrica and I wore new
frocks, which we considered were the latest triumphs of our Nice
couturière,--they certainly ought to have been if they were not, for
their cost was ruinous,--and there were also quite a number of bright
dresses and good-looking men.
As I sat there amid the gay chatter of the table I looked at the spare,
gray-bearded man at its head and fell into reflection. How strange it
was that this man, worth more millions than he could count upon his
fingers, actually toiled in secret each day at his lathe to earn a few
shillings a week from an English firm as pocket-money. All his gay
friends who sat around his table were ignorant of that fact. He only
revealed it to those in whom he placed trust, and I was one of the
latter.
After dinner we all went forth into the gardens, which were illuminated
everywhere with colored lights and lanterns, wandering beneath the
orange-trees, joking and chattering. A rather insipid young prig was
at first my companion, but presently I found myself beside old Mr.
Keppel, who walked at my side far down the hill until we came to the
dark belt of olives which formed the boundary of his domain. Villas on
the Riviera do not usually possess extensive grounds, but the Villa
Fabron was an exception, for the gardens ran right down almost to that
well-known white sea-road that leads along from Nice to the mouth of
the Var.
“How charming!” I exclaimed, as, turning back, we gazed upon the long
terrace hung with Japanese lanterns, and the moving figures, smoking,
taking their coffee, and chattering.
“Yes,” the old man laughed. “I have to be polite to them now and then,
but after all, Miss Rosselli, they don’t come here to visit me, only to
spend a pleasant evening. Society expects me to entertain, so I have
to. But I confess that I never feel at home among all these folks, as
Gerald does.”
“I fear you are becoming just a little world-weary,” I said, smiling.
“Becoming! Why, I was tired of it all years ago,” he answered, glancing
at me with a serious expression in his deep-set eyes. It seemed as
though he wished to confide in me, and yet dared not do so.
“Why not try a change?” I suggested. “You have the Vispera lying at
Villefranche. Why not take a trip in her up the Mediterranean?”
“Would you like to go on a cruise in her?” he asked suddenly. “If you
would, I should be very pleased to take you. I might invite a party for
a run say to Naples and back.”
“I should, of course, be delighted,” I answered enthusiastically,
for yachting was one of my favorite pastimes, and on board such a
magnificent craft, one of the finest private vessels afloat, life would
be most enjoyable.
“Very well, I’ll see what I can arrange,” he answered, and then we fell
to discussing other things.
He smoked thoughtfully as he strolled beside me, his mind evidently
much preoccupied. The stars were bright overhead, the night balmy and
still, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. It was hard to
believe that it was actually midwinter.
“I fear,” he said at last,--“I fear, Miss Rosselli, that you find me a
rather lonely man, don’t you?”
“You have no reason to be lonely,” I responded. “Surrounded by all
these friends, your life might surely be very gay if you wished.”
“Friends? Bah!” he cried in a tone of ridicule. “There’s an attraction
in money that is irresistible. These people here, all of them, bow down
before the golden calf. Sometimes, Miss Rosselli, I have thought that
there’s no real honesty of purpose in the world.”
“I’m afraid you are a bit of a cynic,” I laughed.
“And if I am, may I not be forgiven?” he urged. “I can assure you I
find life very dull indeed.”
It was a strange confession, coming from the lips of such a man. If
only I had a sixteenth part of his wealth I should, I reflected, be a
very happy woman--unless the common saying were actually true, that
great wealth only created unbearable burdens.
“You are not the only one who finds life wearisome,” I observed
frankly. “I also plead guilty to the indictment on frequent occasions.”
“You!” he cried, halting and regarding me in surprise. “You--young,
pretty, vivacious, with ever so many men in love with you? And you are
tired of it all, tired of it while still in your twenties--impossible!”