THE LAST ACT OF LUCRETIA BORGIA.
TWO hours after this interview in the pavilion Raymond Marolles is
seated in his old place in the front row of the stalls. Several times
during the prologue and the first act of the opera his glass seeks the
box next to that of the King, always to find it empty. But after the
curtain has fallen on the _finale_ to the first act, the quiet
watcher raises his glass once more, and sees Valerie enter, leaning on
her uncle’s arm. Her dark beauty loses nothing by its unusual pallor,
and her eyes to-night have a brilliancy which, to the admiring crowd,
who know so little and so little care to know the secrets of her proud
soul, is very beautiful. She wears a high dress of dark green velvet,
fastened at the throat with one small diamond ornament, which trembles
and emits bright scintillations of rainbow light. This sombre dress,
her deadly pallor, and the strange fire in her eyes, give to her beauty
of to-night a certain peculiarity which renders her more than usually
the observed of all observers.
She seats herself directly facing the stage, laying down her costly
bouquet, which is one of pure white, being composed entirely of
orange-flowers, snowdrops, and jasmine, a mixture of winter, summer,
and hot-house blossoms for which her florist knows how to charge her.
She veils the intensity which is the distinctive character of her face
with a weary listless glance to-night. She does not once look round the
house. She has no need to look, for it seems as if without looking she
can see the pale face of Monsieur Marolles, who lounges with his back
to the orchestra, and his opera-glass in his hand.
The Marquis de Cevennes glances at the programme of the opera, and
throws it away from him with a dissatisfied air.
“That abominable poisoning woman!” he says; “when will the Parisians be
tired of horrors?”
His niece raises her eyebrows slightly, but does not lift her eyelids
as she says--“Ah, when, indeed!”
“I don’t like these subjects,” continued the marquis. “Even the
handling of a Victor Hugo cannot make them otherwise than repulsive:
and then again, there is something to be said on the score of their
evil tendency. They set a dangerous example. Lucretia Borgia, in black
velvet, avenging an insult according to the rules of high art and to
the music of Donizetti is very charming, no doubt; but we don’t want
our wives and daughters to learn how they may poison us without fear
of detection. What do you say, Rinval?” he asked, turning to a young
officer who had just entered the box. “Do you think I am right?”
“Entirely, my dear marquis. The representation of such a hideous
subject is a sin against beauty and innocence,” he said, bowing to
Valerie. “And, though the music is very exquisite----”
“Yes,” said Valerie, “my uncle cannot help admiring the music. How have
they been singing to-night?”
“Why, strange to say, for once De Lancy has disappointed his admirers.
His Gennaro is a very weak performance.”
“Indeed!” She takes her bouquet in her hand and plays with the drooping
blossom of a snowdrop. “A weak performance? You surprise me really!”
She might be speaking of the flowers she holds, from the perfect
indifference of her tone.
“They say he is ill,” continues Monsieur Rinval. “He almost broke down
in the ‘Pescator ignobile.’ But the curtain has risen--we shall have
the poison scene soon, and you can judge for yourself.”
She laughs. “Nay,” she says, “I have never been so enthusiastic an
admirer of this young man as you are, Monsieur Rinval. I should not
think the world had come to an end if he happened to sing a false note.”
The young Parisian bent over her chair, admiring her grace and
beauty--admiring, perhaps, more than all, the haughty indifference with
which she spoke of the opera-singer, as if he were something too far
removed from her sphere for her to be in earnest about him even for one
moment. Might he not have wondered even more, if he had admired her
less, could he have known that as she looked up at him with a radiant
face, she could not even see him standing close beside her; that to her
clouded sight the opera-house was only a confusion of waving lights and
burning eyes; and that, in the midst of a chaos of blood and fire, she
saw the vision of her lover and her husband dying by the hand that had
caressed him?
“Now for the banquet scene,” exclaimed Monsieur Rinval. “Ah! there is
Gennaro. Is he not gloriously handsome in ruby velvet and gold? That
clubbed Venetian wig becomes him. It is a wig, I suppose.”
“Oh, no doubt. That sort of people owe half their beauty to wigs, and
white and red paint, do they not?” she asked, contemptuously; and even
as she spoke she was thinking of the dark hair which her white fingers
had smoothed away from the broad brow so often, in that time which,
gone by a few short days, seemed centuries ago to her. She had suffered
the anguish of a lifetime in losing the bright dream of her life.
“See,” said Monsieur Rinval, “Gennaro has the poisoned goblet in his
hand. He is acting very badly. He is supporting himself with one hand
on the back of that chair, though he has not yet drunk the fatal
draught.”
De Lancy was indeed leaning on an antique stage-chair for support.
Once he passed his hand across his forehead, as if to collect his
scattered senses, but he drank the wine, and went on with the music.
Presently, however, every performer in the orchestra looked up as if
thunderstruck. He had left off singing in the middle of a concerted
piece; but the Maffeo Orsini took up the passage, and the opera
proceeded.
“He is either ill, or he does not know the music,” said Monsieur
Rinval. “If the last, it is really shameful; and he presumes on the
indulgence of the public.”
“It is always the case with these favourites, is it not?” asked Valerie.
At this moment the centre of the stage was thrown open. There entered
first a procession of black and shrouded monks singing a dirge. Next,
pale, haughty, and vengeful, the terrible Lucretia burst upon the scene.
Scornful and triumphant she told the companions of Gennaro that
their doom was sealed, pointing to where, in the ghastly background,
were ranged five coffins, waiting for their destined occupants. The
audience, riveted by the scene, awaited that thrilling question of
Gennaro, “Then, madame, where is the sixth?” and as De Lancy emerged
from behind his comrades every eye was fixed upon him.
He advanced towards Lucretia, tried to sing, but his voice broke on
the first note; he caught with his hand convulsively at his throat,
staggered a pace or two forward, and then fell heavily to the floor.
There was immediate consternation and confusion on the stage; chorus
and singers crowded round him; one of the singers knelt down by his
side, and raised his head. As he did so, the curtain fell suddenly.
“I was certain he was ill,” said Monsieur Rinval, “I fear it must be
apoplexy.”
“It is rather an uncharitable suggestion,” said the marquis; “but do
you not think it just possible that the young man may be tipsy?”
There was a great buzz of surprise amongst the audience, and in
about three minutes one of the performers came before the curtain,
and announced that in consequence of the sudden and alarming illness
of Monsieur de Lancy it was impossible to conclude the opera. He
requested the indulgence of the audience for a favourite ballet which
would commence immediately.
The orchestra began the overture of the ballet, and several of the
audience rose to leave the house.
“Will you stop any longer, Valerie? or has this dismal _finale_
dispirited you?” said the marquis.
“A little,” said Valerie; “besides, we have promised to look in at
Madame de Vermanville’s concert before going to the duchess’s ball.”
Monsieur Rinval helped to muffle her in her cloak, and then offered her
his arm. As they passed from the great entrance to the carriage of the
marquis, Valerie dropped her bouquet. A gentleman advanced from the
crowd and restored it to her.
“I congratulate you alike on your strength of mind, as on your beauty,
_mademoiselle_!” he said, in a whisper too low for her companions
to hear, but with a terrible emphasis on the last word.
As she stepped into the carriage, she heard a bystander say--“Poor
fellow, only seven-and-twenty! And so marvellously handsome and gifted!”
“Dear me,” said Monsieur Rinval, drawing up the carriage window, “how
very shocking! De Lancy is dead!”
Valerie did not utter one exclamation at this announcement. She was
looking steadily out of the opposite window. She was counting the lamps
in the streets through the mist of a winter’s night.
“Only twenty-seven!” she cried hysterically, “only twenty-seven! It
might have been thirty-seven, forty-seven, fifty-seven! But he despised
her love; he trampled out the best feelings of her soul; so it was only
twenty-seven! Marvellously handsome, and only twenty-seven!”
“For heaven’s sake open the windows and stop the carriage, Rinval!”
cried the marquis--“I’m sure my niece is ill.”
She burst into a long, ringing laugh.
“My dear uncle, you are quite mistaken. I never was better in my life;
but it seems to me as if the death of this opera-singer has driven
everybody mad.”
They drove rapidly home, and took her into the house. The maid Finette
begged that her mistress might be carried to the pavilion, but the
marquis overruled her, and had his niece taken into her old suite of
apartments in the mansion. The first physicians in Paris were sent for,
and when they came they pronounced her to be seized by a brain-fever,
which promised to be a very terrible one.