Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/85

74 left the matter as they found it, an unsolved enigma!

And so, after the usual time, public interest cooled. The house of Duravel stood as firm as ever, so the idea that pecuniary embarrassment had anything to do with Claude’s disappearance was proved to be baseless, but after a time it was given out that Jerome’s health would not allow him to take an active part in the management. Personal friends hinted that his illness, a nervous complaint, was principally caused by domestic chagrins. From some cause or other, he aged rapidly. At last he withdrew from the business entirely, and left Havre with his wife. The first news of them was that they were at the baths of Lucca, since, as his physicians prescribed a warm air, and Jerome was both a connoisseur and an artist, Italy had two recommendations. A second report stated that the husband and wife had separated by mutual consent. This story caused a little gossip amongst their old friends, but the absent are soon forgotten, and their names were hardly ever mentioned.

Twenty years are passed, and we stand in one of the best private-boxes in the grand opera at Paris. The performances are under the patronage of royalty, and the house is in a blaze of costly jewels and gay uniforms. It is a bewildering thing to know to what quarter to look, for everywhere there are distinguished men and beautiful women. Here a bronzed veteran, newly invested with a marshal’s bâton;—here, his breast glittering with stars and cordons, a renowned diplomatist; ambassadors from St. James’s, Vienna, Madrid, and fifty other courts; beauties from all the salons of Europe. Quaintly attired envoys from barbarous states. As ever, the house is the great spectacle, and the box wherein we have taken our stand a special focus of attraction. Not from the splendid rank and dazzling beauty of its occupant, but from her extraordinary reputation for wealth and political influences. Time has worked great changes in the face, yet those who were present at the Marengo ball, at Havre, would recognise in the painted, and powdered, and essenced dowager the features of Corisande de Cardillac. Two or three special favourites only are admitted into her society, but with these she exchanges repartees, jests, satire, criticism. She is one of the autocrats of the world of art; her bouquet is anxiously looked for by the débutante, for thirty more will follow it. Tonight all notice that she is in unusually good spirits.

“Look at old Madam Duravel! How many modern ladies will look as she does at seventy?” is one of the staple remarks of the evening.

We said “the house is the attraction;” but it so happens that, on this particular night, the stage is also watched with unusual interest, for it is the first night of a new opera and a new singer. The success of the piece has been decided. A duet in the first act would have secured the acceptance of the work if nothing had remained behind, but the maestro has been prodigal of his resources, and each scene supplies some new gem. The new singer is as great a success as the new opera, and old favourites are called before the curtain to receive new ovations.

“Everybody seems bent on surpassing themselves to-night. V, X. All magnificent.”

“Yes! I have been amusing myself by watching the faces of the audience. Nobody looks critical.”

“Except that sour-visaged man holding a lady’s fan in the next box.”

“Yes! What an unhappy But there is the bell.”

The curtain rises. One of the veterans of the lyric stage opens the act with a song. It is a marvel of correct vocalisation. The house is in a new excitement. The dowager is in an unusual difficulty;—she has flung away all her bouquets.

“That rose out of your neck, Eugenie,” said the lady to a lovely girl who sits next her. “I never heard Z in such voice; and, for the first time in his life, he acts as well as he sings. Quick,—that rose, child! He will value it more than all the bracelets from his Majesty’s box, I know.”

The girl blushed and hesitated. Madame Duravel in an instant divined the cause; “O, somebody put the rose there, did he? How naughty of me not to remember it. Well, I suppose a bracelet must go. Why,—Mon Dieu! I have given that little rogue of a danseuse my emeralds already.”

“You must tell Z to-morrow, Aunt; that will do as well.”

“O, no! He must have something from the Duravel. What! No bouquets, ladies !—no bouquets, gentlemen! I shall have to throw my fan at him, I protest. Where is it, child? It has ‘Alexander’s Feast’ painted on it, and he will fancy the compliment intentional!”

The looked-for fan, however, could not be found at the moment. The compliant cavaliers sought in vain under play-bills and opera-cloaks.

Suddenly a strangely deep voice, close in the lady’s ear, uttered the sentence:

“Will this fan serve the purpose, madame?”

The speaker was the grave-looking man, whose grave face and persistent gaze had annoyed the dowager a moment before.

He leant over from the next box and presented an open fan. Madame Duravel gazed at the toy he tendered her for a space, wherein you might perhaps have counted sixty; then her face grew too ashy white, for the artificial glow on her cheek to be of any avail. Her eyes stared with a hideous fixity of gaze, her jewelled fingers clutched her dress like the hands of one in the death-struggle. She uttered a strange harsh shriek and fell down senseless on the floor. All crowded round her. The gentlemen would have made way for Eugenie and the attendants, but the dark man kept close to the insensible body of Corisande. There was a few hurried cries of alarm. Some fancied a subtle poison had been administered in the fan, and called out for the arrest of the person who had presented it. Cries of “silence!” arose from all parts of the theatre. The actors stopped, and at last—though not till some time had passed—the