Thomas O'MallyJames SmithArthur WorthLa Signorina CapricciosaKitty KilligrewAm. Comic Opera Co., N.Y.
Thomas O'MallyJames SmithArthur WorthLa Signorina CapricciosaKitty KilligrewAm. Comic Opera Co., N.Y.
"Kitty has been here!"
"Perfectly true. But I wonder."
"Wonder about what?" asked Merrihew.
"Who La Signorina Capricciosa is. Whimsical indeed. She must be the mysterious prima donna."
He studied the easy-flowing hand, and ran his fingers through his hair thoughtfully. Then he frowned.
"What is it?" asked Merrihew curiously.
"Nothing; only I am wondering where I have seen that handwriting before."
A week in Sorrento, during which Merrihew saw all the beautiful villas, took tea with the Russian princess, made a martyr of himself trying to acquire a taste for the sour astringent wines of the country, and bought inlaid-wood paper-cutters and silk socks and neckties and hat-bands, enough, in truth, to last him for several generations; another week in Capri, where, at the Zum Kater Hidigeigei, he exchanged compliments with the green parrot, drank good beer, playedbatseka(a game of billiards) with the exiles (for Capri has as many as Cairo!) and beat them out of sundry lire, toiled up to the ledge where the playful Tiberius (see guide-books) tipped over his whilom favorites, bought a marine daub; and then back to Naples and the friendly smells. His constant enthusiasm and refreshing observations were a tonic to Hillard.
At the hotel in Naples they found a batch of mail. There was a letter which held particular interest to Merrihew. It was from the consul at Rome, a reply to Hillard's inquiries regarding the American Comic Opera Company.
"We'll now find out where your charming Kitty is," Hillard said, breaking the seal.
But they didn't. On the contrary, the writer hadn't the slightest idea where the play-actors were or had gone. They had opened a two weeks' engagement at the Teatro Quirino. There had been a good house on the opening night; the remainder of the week did not show the sale of a hundred tickets. It was a fallacy that traveling Americans had any desire to witness American productions in Italy. So, then, the managers of the theater had abruptly canceled the engagement. The American manager had shown neither foresight nor common sense. He had, in the first place, come with his own scenery and costumes, upon which he had to pay large duties, and would have to pay further duties each time he entered a large city. His backer withdrew his support; and the percentage demanded by the managers in Florence, Genoa, Milan and Venice was so exorbitant (although they had agreed to a moderate term in the beginning) that it would have been nothing short of foolhardiness to try to fill the bookings. The singing of the prima donna, however, had created a highly favorable impression among the critics; but she was unknown, and to be unknown was next to positive failure, financially. This information, the writer explained, had been obtained by personal investigation. The costumes and scenery had been confiscated; and the manager and his backer had sailed for America, leaving the members of the company to get back the best way they could. As none of the players had come to the consulate for assistance, their whereabouts were unknown. The writer also advised Mr. Hillard not to put his money in any like adventure. Italy was strongly against any foreign invasion, aside from the American trolley-car.
"That's hard luck," growled Merrihew, who saw his hopes go down the horizon.
"But it makes me out a pretty good prophet," was Hillard's rejoinder. "The Angel's money gave out. Too many obstacles. To conquer a people and a government by light opera—it can't be done here. And so the American Comic Opera Company at the present moment is vegetating in some littlepensione, waiting for money from home."
Merrihew gnawed the end of his cane. All his pleasant dreams had burst like soap-bubbles. Had they not always done so? There would be no jaunts with Kitty, no pleasant little excursions, no little suppers after the performance. And what's a Michelangelo or a Titian when a man's in love?
"Brace up, Dan. Who knows? Kitty may be on the high seas, that is, if she has taken my advice and got a return-ticket. I'll give you a dinner at the Bertolini to-night, and you may have the magnum of any vintage you like. We'll have Tomass' drive us down the Via Caracciolo. It will take some of the disappointment out of your system."
"Any old place," was the joyless response. "Seems to me that Italy has all the cards when it comes to graft."
"America, my boy, is only in the primary department. Kitty's manager forgot the most important thing of the whole outfit."
"What's that?"
"The Itching Palm. Evidently it had not been properly soothed. Come on; we may run across some of our ship-acquaintances. To-morrow we'll start for Rome, and then we shall add our own investigations to those of the consul."
They had ridden up and down the Via Caracciolo twice when they espied a huge automobile, ultramarine blue. It passed with a cloud of dust and a rumble which was thunderous. Hillard half rose from his seat.
"Somebody you know?" asked Merrihew.
"The man at the wheel looked a bit like Sandford."
"Sandford? By George, that would be jolly!"
"Perhaps they will come this way again. Tomass', follow that motor."
Sure enough, when the car reached the Largo Vittoria, it wheeled and came rumbling back. This time Hillard had no doubts. He stood up and waved his arms. The automobile barked and groaned and came to a stand.
"Hello, Sandford!"
"Jack Hillard, as I live, and Dan Merrihew! Nell?" turning to one of the three pretty women in the tonneau. "What did I tell you? I felt it in my bones that we would run across some one we knew."
"Or over them," his wife laughed.
In a foreign land one's flag is no longer eyed negligently and carelessly, as though it possessed no significance; it now becomes a symbol of the soil wherein our hearts first took root. A popular tune we have once scorned, now, when heard, catches us by the throat; the merest acquaintance becomes a long-lost brother; and persons to whom we nod indifferently at home now take the part of tried and true friends. But when we meet an old friend, one who has accepted our dinners and with whom we have often dined, what is left but to fall on his neck and weep? There was, then, over this meeting, much ado with handshaking and compliments, handshaking and questions; and, as in all cases like this, every one talked at once. How was old New York? How was the winter in Cairo? And so forth and so on, till a policeman politely told them that this was not a private thoroughfare, and that they were blocking the way. So they parted, the two young men having promised to dine with the Sandford party that evening.
"What luck, Dan!" Hillard was exuberant.
"Saves you the price of a dinner."
"I wasn't thinking of that. But I shall find out all about her to-night."
"Who?"
"The Lady in the Fog, the masquerading lady!"
"Bah! I should prefer something more solid than a vanishing lady."
"Look here, Dan, I never throw cold water on you."
"There have been times when it would have done my head good."
Sandford knew how to order a dinner; and so by the time that Merrihew had emptied his second glass of Burgundy and his first of champagne, he was in the haze of golden confidence. He would find Kitty, and when he found her he would find her heart as well.
"Say, Jack," said Sandford, "what did you mean by that fool cable, anyhow?"
Hillard had been patiently waiting for an opening of this sort. "And what did you mean by hoaxing me?"
"Hoaxing you?"
"That's the word. I was in your house that night; I was there as surely as I am here to-night."
"Nell, am I crazy, or is it Jack?"
"Sometimes," said Mrs. Sandford, "when you put the chauffeur in the tonneau, I'm inclined to think that it is you."
Hillard looked straight into the placid grey eyes of his hostess. Very slowly one of the white lids drooped. His heart bounded.
"But really," continued Sandford seriously, "unless you bribed the caretaker, you could not possibly have entered the house. You have been dreaming."
"Very well, then; it begins to look as if I had." It was apparent to Hillard that Sandford was not in his wife's confidence in all things. He also saw the wisdom of dropping the subject while at the table. To take up the thread of that romance again! He needed no wine to tingle his blood.
They took coffee and liqueur in the glass-inclosed balcony. All Naples sparkled at their feet, and the young moon rose over the Sorrentine Hills. Sandford and Merrihew and the other two ladies began an animated exchange of experiences. Hillard found a quiet nook, not far from the lift. He saw that Mrs. Sandford's chair was placed so that she could get a good view of the superb night. He sat down himself, sipped his liqueur meditatively, drank his coffee, and, as she nodded, lighted a cigarette.
"Well?" she said, smiling into his brown eyes. She was rather fond of Hillard; a gentleman always, and one of excellent taste. There was never any wearisome innuendo in his wit nor suggestion in his stories.
"You deliberately winked at me," he began.
"I deliberately did."
"Sandford is in the dark; I suspected as much."
"Regarding the wink?"
"Regarding the mysterious woman who occupied your house by your express authority, and who rode the hunter in the park."
"Was there ever a more beautiful picture?" sweeping her hands toward the city.
"The beauty of it will last several hours yet. Who and what was she?"
"I wish I could find you a wife; you would make a good husband."
"Thank you. I am even willing, with your assistance, to prove it. Who was she, and how came she in your house?"
"She wished that favor, and that her presence in New York should not be known. Now, describe to me exactly what happened. I am worrying about the plate and the silver."
He laughed. "And you will meet me half-way?"
"I promise to tell you all I ... dare."
"There is a mystery?"
"Yes. So begin with your side of it."
He was a capital story-teller. He recounted the adventure in all its color; the voice under his window, the personals in the paper, the interchange of letters, the extraordinary dinner, the mask in the envelope. She followed him with breathless interest.
"Charming, charming!" She clapped her hands. "And how well you tell it! You have told it just as it happened."
"Just as it happened!" confounded for a moment.
"Exactly. I have had a letter, two, in fact. You did not see her face?"
"Only the chin and mouth. But if I ever meet her again I shall know her by her teeth."
"Heavens! And how?"
"Two lower ones are gone; otherwise they would be beautiful."
"Poor man! You have builded your house upon the sands. Her teeth are perfect. She has fooled you."
"But I saw with these two eyes!"
"There is a preparation which theatrical people use; a kind of gum. She mentioned the trick. Isn't she clever?"
"Yet I shall know her hair," doggedly.
She put her hands swiftly to her head. "Now, you have known me for years. What is the color of my hair?"
"Why, it is blond."
"Nothing of the kind. It is auburn. If you can not tell mine, how will you tell hers?"
"I shall probably run after every red-headed woman in Europe till I find her," humorously.
"If you can keep out of jail long enough."
"I shall at any rate remember her voice."
"That is better. Our ears never deceive half so often as our eyes."
"Her face is not scarred, is it?"
"Scarred!" indignantly. "She is as beautiful as a Raphael, as lovely as a Bouguereau. If I were a man I should gladly journey round the world for the sight of her."
"I am willing, even anxious."
"I should fall in love with her."
"I believe I have."
"And I should marry her, too."
"Even that."
"Come, Mr. Hillard; I am just fooling. You are too sensible a man to fall in love with a shadow, a mask. Your fancy has been trapped, that is all. One does not fall in love that way."
"You ought to know," with a sidelong glance at Sandford.
As her glance followed his, hers grew warm and kindly. Sandford, by chance meeting the look, smiled back across the room. This little by-play filled Hillard with a sense of envy and loneliness. At three-and-thirty a bachelor realizes that there is something else in life besides business and travel.
"It is quite useless to ask who she is?" he inquired of his hostess.
"Quite useless."
"She is married?"
"Certainly I have not said so."
He flicked the ash from his cigarette. What was the use of trying to trap a woman into saying what she did not propose to say?
"Have you those letters?"
"One of them I'll show you."
"Why not the other?"
"It would be wasting time. It merely relates to your adventure. She sailed the day after you dined with her."
"That accounts for the shutters. The police and the caretaker were bribed."
"I suspect they were."
"If I were a vain man, and you know I am not, I might ask you if she spoke well of me in this letter. Understand, I am not inquiring."
"But you put the question as adroitly as a woman. We are sure of vanity always. Yes, she spoke of you. She found you to be an agreeable gentleman. But," with gentle malice, "she did not say that she wished she had met you years ago, under more favorable circumstances, or that she liked your eyes, which are really fine ones."
He had to join in her laughter.
"Come, give me the death-stroke and have done with it. Tell me what you dare, and I'll be content with it."
She opened her handkerchief purse and delved among the various articles therein.
"I expected that you would be asking questions, so I came prepared. I did not tell my husband for that very reason. He would have insisted upon knowing everything. Here, read this. It is only a glimpse."
He searched eagerly for the signature.
"Don't bother," she said. "The name is only a nickname we gave her at school."
"School? Do you mean to tell me that you went to school with her? Where?"
"In Pennsylvania first; then in Milan. Read."
O Cara Mia—If only you knew how sorry I am to miss you! Why must you sail at once? Why not come to my beautiful Venice? True, I could not entertain you as in the days of my good father. But I have so much to say to you that can not be written. You ask about the adventure. Pouf! goes my little dream of greatness. It was a blank failure. Much as I knew about Italy I could not know everything. The officials put unheard-of obstacles in our path. The contracts were utterly disregarded. In the first place, we had not purchased our costumes and scenery in Italy.
O Cara Mia—If only you knew how sorry I am to miss you! Why must you sail at once? Why not come to my beautiful Venice? True, I could not entertain you as in the days of my good father. But I have so much to say to you that can not be written. You ask about the adventure. Pouf! goes my little dream of greatness. It was a blank failure. Much as I knew about Italy I could not know everything. The officials put unheard-of obstacles in our path. The contracts were utterly disregarded. In the first place, we had not purchased our costumes and scenery in Italy.
"Costumes and scenery?" Hillard sought the signature again. Mrs. Sandford was staring at the moonlit bay.
That poor manager! And that poor man who advanced the money! They forgot that the booking is as nothing, the incidentals everything. The base of all the trouble was a clerk in the consulate at Naples. He wrote us that there would be no duties on costumes and scenery. Alas! the manager and his backer are on the way to America, sadder and wiser men. We surrendered our return tickets to the chorus and sent them home. The rest of us are stranded—is not that the word?—here in Venice, waiting for money from home. If I were alone, it would be highly amusing; but these poor people with me! There is only one way I can help them, but that, never. You recollect that my personal income is quarterly, and it will be two months before I shall have funds. I could get it advanced, but I dare not. There are persons moving Heaven and earth to find me. My companions haven't the least idea who I am; to them I am one of the profession. So here we all are, wandering about the Piazza San Marco, calling at Cook's every day in hopes of money, and occasionally risking a penny in corn for the doves. I am staying with my nurse, my mother's maid, in the Canipo Santa Maria Formosa, near our beloved Santa Barbara. Very quietly I have guaranteed the credit of my unfortunate companions, and they believe that Venetians are very generous people. Generous! Think of it! Come to Venice, dear; it is all nonsense that you must return to America. Perhaps you will wonder how I dared appear on the stage in Italy. A black wig and a theatrical make-up; these were sufficient. A duke sent me an invitation to take supper with him, as if I were a ballerina! I sent one of the American chorus girls, a little minx for mischief. She ate his supper, and then ran away. I understand that he was furious. Only a few months more, Nell, and then I may come and go as I please. Come to Venice. Capricciosa.
That poor manager! And that poor man who advanced the money! They forgot that the booking is as nothing, the incidentals everything. The base of all the trouble was a clerk in the consulate at Naples. He wrote us that there would be no duties on costumes and scenery. Alas! the manager and his backer are on the way to America, sadder and wiser men. We surrendered our return tickets to the chorus and sent them home. The rest of us are stranded—is not that the word?—here in Venice, waiting for money from home. If I were alone, it would be highly amusing; but these poor people with me! There is only one way I can help them, but that, never. You recollect that my personal income is quarterly, and it will be two months before I shall have funds. I could get it advanced, but I dare not. There are persons moving Heaven and earth to find me. My companions haven't the least idea who I am; to them I am one of the profession. So here we all are, wandering about the Piazza San Marco, calling at Cook's every day in hopes of money, and occasionally risking a penny in corn for the doves. I am staying with my nurse, my mother's maid, in the Canipo Santa Maria Formosa, near our beloved Santa Barbara. Very quietly I have guaranteed the credit of my unfortunate companions, and they believe that Venetians are very generous people. Generous! Think of it! Come to Venice, dear; it is all nonsense that you must return to America. Perhaps you will wonder how I dared appear on the stage in Italy. A black wig and a theatrical make-up; these were sufficient. A duke sent me an invitation to take supper with him, as if I were a ballerina! I sent one of the American chorus girls, a little minx for mischief. She ate his supper, and then ran away. I understand that he was furious. Only a few months more, Nell, and then I may come and go as I please. Come to Venice. Capricciosa.
Hillard did not stir. Another labyrinth to this mystery! Capricciosa; Kitty Killigrew's unknown prima donna; and all he had to do was to take the morning train for Venice, and twenty-four hours later he would be prowling through the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. Though his mind was busy with a hundred thoughts, his head was still bent and his eyes riveted upon the page.
Mrs. Sandford observed him curiously, even sadly. Why couldn't his fancy have been charmed by an every-day, sensible girl, and not by this whimsical, extraordinary woman who fooled diplomats, flaunted dukes, and kept a king at arm's length as a pastime? And yet—!
"Capricciosa," he mused aloud. "That is not her name."
"And I shall not tell it you."
"But her given name? Just a straw; something to hold on; I'm a drowning man." Hillard's pleadings would have melted a heart of stone.
"It is Hilda."
"That is German."
"She prefers it to Sonia."
"Sonia Hilda; it begins well. May I keep this letter?"
"Certainly not. With thatcara mia? Give it to me."
He did so. "Shall I seek her?"
"This is my advice: don't think of her after to-night. If you ever see or recognize her, avoid her. It may sound theatrical, but she is the innocent cause of two deaths. These men sought her openly, too."
"What has she done?"
"She made a great, though common, mistake."
"Political?"
Her lips closed firmly, but a smile lurked in the corners.
He sighed.
"Don't be foolish. I am sorry I let you see the letter. I forgot that she told me her hiding-place."
"Her hiding-place?"
"Mr. Hillard, she is as far removed from your orbit as Mars' is from Jupiter's. Forget her."
"My orbit is not limited. I shall seek her; when I find her I shall ... marry her."
But her lips closed again.
"Sphinx!" he murmured with reproach.
"I like you too much, Mr. Hillard, to stand by and see you break your heart against a stone wall."
"Don't you see, the deeper the mystery is the more powerful the attraction becomes?"
The door to the lift opened and closed noisily, and Hillard turned negligently. A man sauntered through the room. The moment he came into the light Hillard's interest became lively enough: It was the handsome Italian with the scar.
"Who is that man?" he whispered. "Only a few weeks ago I bumped into him on coming out of the club."
A swift glance, then her eyes grew unfriendly, her shoulders rigid and repellent.
"Do not attract his attention," she answered in a low tone. "Yes, I know him, and I do not wish him to see me."
"Who is he?" he repeated.
"A Venetian officer, and a profligate. I entertained him once, but I learned from him that I had been ill-advised."
Hillard saw that this subject would admit of no further questions. The man with the scar had committed some inexcusable offense, and Mrs. Sandford had crossed him off the list. He knew that the Italian officer is, more or less, a lady's man; and the supreme confidence he has in the power of brass buttons and gold lace makes him at times insufferable.
It was after ten when Hillard and his friend took their leave. They would not see their host and hostess again till they reached New York. Upon coming out on the Corso, Hillard whistled merrily.
"Pleasant evening," was Merrihew's comment.
Hillard continued to whistle.
"Good dinner, too."
The whistle went on serenely, in spite of Merrihew's obvious attempts to choke it off.
"You seemed to have a good deal to say to Mrs. Sandford. She knows the lady who was in the house?"
Still the whistle.
"Say, wake up!" cried Merrihew impatiently.
"We shall leave in the morning for Venice," said Hillard, taking up the tune again.
"Venice? How about Rome and Florence?"
"Which would you prefer: Rome and the antiquities, or Venice and—Kitty Killigrew?"
"Kitty in Venice? Are you sure?"
"She is there with La Signorina Capricciosa. Oh, this is a fine world, after all, and I was wrong to speak ill of it this morning."
"If Kitty's in Venice, I'm an ungrateful beggar, too. But I do not see why Kitty's being in Venice excites you."
"No? Well, fate writes that Kitty's mysterious prima donna and my Lady of the Mask are one and the same person."
"No!"
The two, without further words, marched along the middle of the Corso to the hotel, which was only a few steps away. They entered. The concierge started toward them as if he desired to impart some valuable information, but suddenly reconsidered, and retreated to his bandbox of an office and busied himself with the ever-increasingdebours. The strangeness of his movements passed unnoticed by the two men, who continued on through the lobby, turning into the first corridor. Hillard inserted his key in the door of his room, unlocked it, and swung it inward. This done, he paused irresolutely on the threshold, and with good cause.
"What the devil can this mean?" he whispered to Merrihew, who peered over his shoulder.
Two dignifiedcarabinierirose quickly and approached Hillard. There was something in the flashing eyes and set jaws that made him realize that the safest thing for him to do at that moment was to stand perfectly still!
"Signori," began Hillard calmly, "before you act, will you not do me the honor to explain to me the meaning of this visit?"
"It is not he!" said one of thecarabinieri. "It is the master, and not the servant. This is Signore Hillar, is it not?" he continued, addressing himself to Hillard.
"Yes."
"The signore has a servant by the name of Giovanni?"
"Yes. And what has he done to warrant this visit?" Hillard asked less calmly.
"It is a matter of seven years," answered the spokesman. "Your servant attempted to kill an officer in Rome. Luigi here, who was then interested in the case in Rome, thought he recognized Giovanni in the street to-day. Inquiries led us here."
"Ah!" Hillard thought quickly. "I am afraid that you have had your trouble for nothing. Giovanni is now a citizen of the United States, under full protection of its laws, domestic and foreign. It would not be wise for you to touch him."
Thecarabinieristared at each other. They shrugged.
"Signore, we recognize no foreign citizenship for our countrymen who, having committed a crime, return to the scene of it. We are here to arrest him. He will be tried and sentenced. But it is possible that he may be allowed to return to America, once he has been proved guilty of intent to kill."
Hillard flushed, but he curbed the rise in his temper. It was enough that the United States was made the dumping-ground of the criminal courts of Europe, without having it forced upon him in this semi-contemptuous fashion. Thecarabinierisaw the effort.
"The signore speaks Italian so well that he will understand that we have nothing to do with deportation. Our business is simply to arrest offenders against the State. It is to the State you must look for redress; and here the State is indifferent where the offender goes, so long as it is far away." The speaker bowed ceremoniously.
"Yes, I understand. But I repeat, my servant is a legal citizen of the United States, and there will be complications if you touch him."
"Not for us. That rests between you and the State. Our orders are to arrest him."
"At any rate, it looks as though Giovanni had been forewarned of your visit. And may I ask, what is the name of the officer Giovanni attempted to kill?"
"It is not necessary that you should know."
Hillard accepted the rebuke with becoming grace.
"And now, signore," with the utmost courtesy, "permit us to apologize for this intrusion. We shall wait in the hall, and if we find Giovanni we shall gladly notify you of the event."
The two officers bowed and passed out into the corridor. Hillard raised his hat, and closed the door.
"Now, what the deuce has all this powwow been about?" demanded Merrihew; for he had understood nothing, despite hisHow to Speak Italian in One Day.
"It's that rascal Giovanni."
"Did he find his man and cut him up?"
"No. It seems that these carabinieri have remark-able memories; the old affair. Poor devil! I can't imagine how they traced him here. But I repeatedly warned him about going abroad in the daylight. Hello, what's this?" going to the table. It was a note addressed to him; and it was from the fugitive.
My kind master—Thecarabinieriare after me. But rest easy. I was not born to rot in a dungeon. I am going north. As for my clothes, send them to Giacamo, the baker, who lives on the road to El Deserta. He will understand. May the Holy Mother guard you, should we never meet again!
My kind master—Thecarabinieriare after me. But rest easy. I was not born to rot in a dungeon. I am going north. As for my clothes, send them to Giacamo, the baker, who lives on the road to El Deserta. He will understand. May the Holy Mother guard you, should we never meet again!
Hillard passed the note to Merrihew.
"That's too bad. I've taken a great fancy to him. It seems that the peasant has no chance on this side of the water. His child a painted dancer in Paris, and a price on his own head! It's hard luck. And the fellow who caused all this trouble goes free."
"He always goes free, Dan, here or elsewhere."
"Why, we'd have lynched him in America."
"That's possible. We are such an impulsive race," ironically. "Yes, no doubt we'd have lynched him; and these foreigners would have added another ounce of fact to their belief that we are still barbarians."
"I hadn't thought of that," Merrihew admitted. Till now he had never cared particularly whether a foreigner's opinion was favorable or not.
"No, but when you start for home you will always think of it. Our reporters demand of the foreigner, barely he has stepped ashore, what he thinks of the United States; and then nearly every one he meets helps to form the opinion that we are insufferably underbred. Ours is not studied incivility; it is worse than that; it is downright carelessness."
"I am beginning to see things differently. When the concierge tips his hat, I tip mine. Since Giovanni is gone, suppose we pack up? There's little to do, as the trunks are as we left them. But I say, how is it that all thesecarabinieriwe see are so tall? The Neapolitan is invariably short and thick-set."
"They come from the north as far as Domo d'Ossola; mountaineers. Italy has a good policy regarding her military police. The Neapolitan is sent north and the Venetian and Tuscan south, out of reach of family ties and feuds. Thus, there is never any tug between duty and friendship. The truth is, the Italian is less inclined toward duty than toward friendship. This isolation makes thecarabinierithe right hand of the army, and no other soldier in Europe is half so proud of his uniform, not even the German. The people smile as they pass, you will notice always in pairs; but when they are in trouble, these weather-vane people, they fly straight to thecarabinieri. Imagine the cocksureness and insolence we'd have suffered from two New York policemen, had we found them in our homes! Oh, I have a soft spot for thecarabinieri. You will find no brigands in Italy now; that is because thecarabinieriare everywhere, silent, watchful, on highways, in the mountains, in all villages and in all stations. I have never seen one of them ogle a woman. And never ask them where your hotel is, or the station, or such and such a street. They will always tell you, but they secretly resent it."
"I'll remember; but so far as I'm concerned, they'd have an easy time of it. Why, I couldn't ask a question in billboard Italian. Now, out with it; where and how did you learn that Kitty is in Venice?"
Hillard told him briefly.
"And so they are all in Venice, broke? By George, here's our chance; everlasting gratitude and all that. We'll bail 'em out and ship 'em home! How is that for a bright idea?" Merrihew had regained his usual enthusiasm.
"Let me see," said Hillard practically. "There are five of them: five hundred for tickets and doubtless five hundred more for unpaid hotel bills. It would never do, Dan, unless we wish to go home with them."
"But I haven't touched my letter of credit yet. I could get along on two thousand."
"Not with the brand of cigars you are smoking; a lira-fifty each."
"Well I'll try the native brand for a while,Trabucos."
"Not in my immediate vicinity," Hillard objected. "No, we can't bail them out, but we can ease up their bills till money comes from home. Not one of them by this time will have a watch. O'Mally will remain sober from dire necessity. Poor Kitty Killigrew! All the wonderful shops and not a stiver in her pockets!"
"Aren't they the most careless lot, these professional people? They never prepare for emergencies, and are always left high and dry. Instead of putting their cash in banks, they buy diamonds, with the idea that they have always something convertible into cash at a moment's notice."
"Usually at one-third of what the original price was." Hillard threw off his hat and coat and lighted his pipe.
Merrihew paced the floor for some time, his head full of impossible schemes. He stopped in the middle of the room with an abruptness which portended something.
"I have it. Instead of going directly to Venice, we'll change the route and go to Monte Carlo. I'll risk my four hundred, and if I win!"
"Then the announcement cards, a house-wedding, and pictures in the New York papers. Dan, you are impossible. You have gambled enough to know that when you are careless of results you win, but never when you need the cash. But it is Monte Carlo, if you say so. Two or three days there will cure you of your beautiful dream. After all," with a second thought, "it's a good cause, and it might be just your luck to win. The masquerading lady! I'll stake my word that there is comedy within comedy, and rare good comedy at that. Monte Carlo it is."
Merrihew danced a jig. Hillard stepped to the mirror and bowed profoundly. The jig ceased.
"Madame, permit me, a comparative stranger, to offer you passage money home. We won it at Monte Carlo; take it, it is yours. Polite enough," mused Hillard, turning and smiling; "but hanged if it sounds proper."
"To the deuce with propriety!" cried Merrihew buoyantly. "We'll start, then, at nine to-morrow?"
"At nine promptly."
"I'm off to bed, then." As Merrihew reached the door he paused. "I forgot to tell you. Do you recollect that Italian you ran into at the club that night? Saw him at the hotel to-night. He bowed to Sandford, and Sandford cut him dead. It set me thinking."
"The Sandfords entertained him somewhere, once upon a time, and he behaved like a cad. I don't know what about, and I don't care."
"Humph! I hope Giovanni gets off safely."
"I think he will."
When Merrihew had gone Hillard opened the shutters to clear the room of the tobacco smoke, and stood beside the sill, absorbing the keen night air and admiring the serene beauty of the picture which lay spread before him. The moon stood high and clear now, the tiled roofs shone mistily, and from some near-by garden came the perfume of boxwood and roses. All was silence; noisy Naples slept. He would see her face this time; he would tear aside the mystery. She had made a great mistake? That was of small consequence to him. He could laugh at Mrs. Sandford's warning. He was no green and untried youth; he was a man. Then he laughed aloud. It was so droll. Here was Merrihew in love with the soubrette, and he himself....Washe in love, or was only his fancy trapped? A fine comedy! The soubrette and the prima donna! He closed the shutters, for the Neapolitan is naturally a thief, and an open window is as large as a door to him. He packed his cases, and this done, went to bed. For a time he could hear Merrihew in the adjoining room; but even this noise ceased. Hillard fell asleep and dreamed that he and Giovanni were being pursued bycarabinieriin petticoats and half-masks, that Merrihew had won tons of napoleons at Monte Carlo, and that Kitty Killigrew was a princess in disguise. Such is the vagary of dreams.
From her window Kitty looked down on the Campo which lay patched with black shadows and moonshine. A magic luster, effective as hoar-frost, enveloped the ancient church, and the lines of the eaves and the turns of the corners were silver-bright. How still at night was this fairy city in the sea! Save for the occasional booming of bells—and in Italy they are for ever and ever booming—and the low warning cry of the gondoliers, there was nothing which spoke of life, certainly not here in the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. There were no horses clattering over the stone pavements, no trams, no omnibuses; the stillness which was of peace lay over all things. And some of this had entered Kitty's heart. She was not deeply read, but nevertheless she had her share of poetical feeling. And to her everything in the venerable city teemed with unexpressed lyric. What if the Bridge of Sighs was not true, or the fair Desdemona had not dwelt in a palace on the Grand Canal, or the Merchant had neither bought nor sold in the shadow of the Rialto bridge? Historians are not infallible, and it is sometimes easier and pleasanter to believe the poets.
But for one thing the hour would have been perfect. Kitty, ordinarily brave and cheerful, was very lonesome and homesick. Tears sparkled in her eyes and threatened to fall at any moment. It was all very well to dream of old Venice; but when home and friends kept intruding constantly! The little bank-account was so small that five hundred would wipe it out of existence. And now she would be out of employment till the coming autumn. The dismal failure of it all! She had danced, sung, spoken her lines the very best she knew how; and none had noticed or encouraged her. It was a bitter cup, after all the success at home. If only she could take it philosophically; like La Signorina! She shut her eyes. How readily she could see the brilliant, noisy, friendly Broadway, the electric signs before the theaters, the gay crowds in the restaurants! It was all very fine to see Europe on a comfortable letter of credit, but to see it under such circumstances as these, that was a different matter. To live in this evil-smelling old tenement, with seldom any delicacy to eat, a strange jabber-jabber ringing in one's ears from morning till night, and to wait day after day for that letter from home, was not a situation such as would hearten one's love of romance. The men had it much easier; they always do. There was ever some place for a man to go; and there were three of them, and they could talk to one another. But here, unless La Signorina was about—and she had an odd way of disappearing—she, Kitty, had to twiddle her thumbs or talk to herself, for she could understand nothing these people, kindly enough in their way, said to her.
She opened her eyes again, and this time the tears flowed unheeded. Of what use is pride, unless it be observed by others? She missed some one, a frank, merry, kind-hearted some one; and it was balm to her heart to admit it at last. Had he appeared to her at that moment, she must have fallen gratefully into his arms.
And there were so many things she could not understand. Why should La Signorina always go veiled? Why should she hide her splendid beauty? Where did she disappear so mysteriously in the daytime? And those sapphires, and diamonds, and emeralds? Why live here, with such a fortune hanging round her neck? Kitty forgot that, for the sake of sentiment, one will sometimes eat a crust when one might dine like a prince.
"Kitty?" The voice came from the doorway. Kitty was startled for a moment, but it was only La Signorina. Kitty furtively wiped her eyes.
"I am over here by the window. The moon was so bright I did not light the lamp."
La Signorina moved with light step to the window, bent and caught Kitty's face between her hands and turned it firmly toward the moon.
"You have been crying,cara!"
"I am very lonely," said Kitty.
"You poor little homeless bird!" La Signorina seized Kitty impulsively in her arms. "If I were not—" She hesitated.
"If you were not?"
"If I were not poor, but rich instead, I'd take you to one of the fashionable hotels. You are out of place here, in this rambling old ruin."
"Not half so much as you are," Kitty replied.
"I am never out of place. I can live comfortably in the fields with the peasants, in cities, in extravagant hotels. It is the mind, my dear, not the body. My mind is always at one height; where the body is does not matter much."
There was a subtle hauteur in the voice; it subdued Kitty's inquisitiveness. And no other woman had, till recently, accomplished this feat. Kitty was proud, but there was something in her companion that she recognized but could not express in words.
"Come!" said the older woman. "I myself am lonely and desperate to-night. I am going to throw away a precious bit of silver on a gondolier. We haven't been out three times together since we arrived. Perhaps it would have been better had we all remained in Rome; but there I could not have helped you. The band plays in the Piazza to-night. They are going to play light opera, and it will tone us both up a bit. More than that, we'll have coffee at Florian's, if we can find a table. To-morrow we may have to do without breakfast. But there's the old saying that he who sleeps dines.Avanti!"
"Sometimes," said Kitty, drying the final tear, "sometimes I am afraid of you."
"And wisely. I am often afraid of myself. I always do the first thing that enters my head, and generally it is the wrong thing. Never mind. The old woman here will trust us for some weeks yet." She leaned from the window and called. "Pomp-e-o!"
From the canal the gondolier answered.
"Now then!" said the woman to the girl.
Kitty threw a heavy shawl over her head and shoulders, while the other wound about her face the now familiar dark grey veil; and the two went down into the Campo to the landing. Kitty longed to ask La Signorina why she invariably wore that veil, but she did not utter the question, knowing full well that La Signorina would have evaded it frankly.
Pompeo threw away his cigarette and doffed his hat. He offered his elbow to steady the women as they boarded; and once they were seated, a good stroke sent the gondola up the canal. The women sat speechless for some time. At each intersection Pompeo called right or left musically. Sometimes the moon would find its way through the brick and marble cañon, or the bright ferrule of another gondola flashed and disappeared into the gloom. Under bridges they passed, they glided by little restaurants where the Venetians, in olden days, talked liberty for themselves and death to the Austrians, and at length they came out upon the Grand Canal where the Rialto curves its ancient blocks of marble and stalactites gleam ghostly overhead.
"There, this is better."
"It is always better when you are with me," said Kitty.
For years Kitty had fought her battles alone, independent and resourceful; and yet here she was, leaning upon the strong will of this remarkable woman, and gratefully, too. It is a pleasant thing to shift responsibility to the shoulders of one we know to be capable of bearing it.
"Now, my dear Kitty, we'll just enjoy ourselves to-night, and on our return I shall lay a plan before you, and to-morrow you may submit it to the men. It is as usual a foolish plan, but it will be something of an adventure."
"I accept it at once, without knowing what it is."
"Kitty Killigrew," mused La Signorina. "The name is as pretty as you are. Pretty Kitty Killigrew; it actually sings." Then she added solemnly: "Never change it. There is no man worth the exchange."
Kitty was not wholly sure of this, so she made no response.
"What a beautiful palace!" she cried presently, pointing to a house in darkness, not far from the house of Petrarch. It was only the interior of the house that was in darkness. The moon poured broadly upon it. The leaning gondola-posts stood like sleeping sentinels, and the tide murmured over the marble steps.
Pompeo, seeing Kitty's gesture and not understanding her words, swung the gondola diagonally across the canal.
"No, no, Pompeo!" La Signorina spoke in Italian. "I have told you never to go near that house without express orders. Straight ahead."
The gondola at once resumed its former course. Never did Pompeo take a tourist down the Grand Canal that he did not exalt in his best Italian and French the beauties of yonder empty palace. Had he not spent his youth in the service of the family? It was only of late years that Pompeo had become a public gondolier, with his posts in the stand fronting the Hotel de l'Europe.
"A-oel!Look out!" he called suddenly. Another gondola scraped alongside and passed on.
"Who lives there?" asked Kitty.
"Nobody," answered La Signorina. "Though once it was the palace of a great warrior. How picturesque the gondolas look, with their dancing double lights! Those without numbers are private."
"The old palace interests me more than the gondolas," declared Kitty.
But La Signorina was not to be trapped.
Presently they passed the row of great hotels, with their balconies hanging over the water and their steps running down into it. Kitty eyed them all regretfully. She saw men and women in evening dress, and she was sure that they had dined well and were happy. Without doubt there were persons who knew her by name and had seen her act. From the Grand Canal they came out into the great Canal of San Marco, the beginning of the lagoon. Here Kitty forgot for the moment her troubles; her dream-Venice had returned. There were private yachts, Adriatic liners, all brilliant with illumination, and hundreds of gondolas, bobbing, bobbing, like captive leviathans, bunched round the gaily-lanterned barges of the serenaders. There was only one flaw to this perfect dream: the shrill whistle of the ferry-boats. They had no place here, and their presence was an affront.
"How I hate them!" said La Signorina. "The American influence! Some day they will be filling up the canals and running trams over them. What is beauty and silence if there be profit in ugliness and noise?"
"La Signorina—" began Kitty.
"There! I have warned you twice. The third time I shall be angry."
"Hilda, then. But I am afraid whenever I call you that. You do not belong to my world."
"And what makes you think that?" There was a smile behind the veil.
"I do not know, unless it is that you are at home everywhere, in the Campo, in the hotels, in the theater or the palace. Now, I am at home only in the theater, in places which are unreal and artificial. You are a great actress, a great singer; and yet, as O'Mally would say, you don't belong." Kitty had forgotten what she had started out to say.
La Signorina laughed. "Pouf! You have been reading too many novels. To themolo, Pompeo."
At themolo, the great quay of Venice, they disembarked. The whilom prima donna dropped fifty centesimi into Pompeo's palm, and he bowed to the very gunwale of the boat.
"Grazie, nobilità."
"What does he say?" asked Kitty.
"He says, 'Thanks, nobility.' If I had given him a penny it would have been thanks only. For a lira he would have addedprincipessa—princess. The gondolier will give you any title you desire, if you are willing enough to pay for it. We shall return on foot, Pompeo; this will be all for the night."
Pompeo lifted his hat again, and pushed off.
"He was very cheap," said Kitty. "Only ten cents for a ride like that!"
A ripple of laughter greeted this remark. "Pompeo can read human nature; he knows that I am honest. What I gave him was a tip."
"Aren't you laughing at me sometimes?"
"Disabuse your mind of that fancy,cara. It is a long time since I gave my affections to any one, and I do give them to you." With this she caught Kitty by the arm, and the two went up the Piazzetta leisurely toward the Piazza.
The Piazza San Marco, or Saint Mark, is the Mecca of those in search of beauty; here they may lay the sacred carpet, kneel and worship. There is none other to compare with this mighty square, with its enchanting splendor, its haunting romance, its brilliant if pathetic history. Light, everywhere light; scintillating, dancing, swinging light! Spars and lances of light upon the shivering waters, red and yellow and white! Light, the reflective radiance of jewels and happy eyes! Light, breaking against the pink and white marbles, the columns of porphyry, malachite, basalt, and golden mosaics! Let the would-be traveler dream of it never so well; he will come to find his dreams vanquished. Nothing changes in the Piazza San Marco, nothing save the tourists and the contents of the bewildering shops; all else remains the same, a little more tarnished by the sea-winds and the march of the decades, perhaps, but still the same. Read your poets and study your romances, but delve into no disillusioning guide-books. Let us put our faith in the gondolier; for his lies are far more picturesque than a world of facts.
There were several thousand people in the square to-night, mostly travelers. The band was playing selections from Audran's whimsicalLa Mascotte. The tables of the many cafés were filled, and hundreds walked to and fro under the bright arcades, or stopped to gaze into the shop-windows. Here the merchant seldom closes his shop till the band goes home. Music arouses the romantic, and the romantic temperament is always easy to swindle, and the merchant of Venice will swindle you if he can.
The two women saw no vacant tables at Florian's, but presently they espied the other derelicts—O'Mally, Smith, and Worth—who managed to find two extra chairs. They learned that O'Mally had had two beers, a vast piece of recklessness. He was ripe for anything, and gaily welcomed his fellow unfortunates. He laughed, told funny stories, and made himself generally amusing. Smith made weak attempts to assist him. On the other hand, Worth seldom smiled and rarely spoke.
Through her veil their former prima donna studied them carefully, with a purpose in mind. The only one she doubted was Worth. Somehow he annoyed her; she could not explain, yet still the sense of annoyance was always there. It might have been that she had seen that look in other eyes, and that it usually led to the same end. She could not criticize his actions; he was always the perfection of courtesy to her, never overstepped, never intruded.
"Gentlemen," she said during a lull, "I have a plan to propose to you all."
"If it will get us back to old Broadway before we are locked up for debt, let us have it at once, by all means," said O'Mally.
"Well, then, I propose to wait no longer for letters from home. The last boat brought nothing; it will be fourteen days before the next arrives, since you all tell me that you wrote to have your mail sent by the Mediterranean. My plan is simple. They say that a gambler always wins the first time he plays. Taking this as the golden text, I propose that each of you will spare me what money you can, and Kitty and I will go to Monte Carlo and take one plunge at the tables."
"Monte Carlo!" O'Mally brought down his fist resoundingly. "That's a good idea. If you should break the bank, think of the advertisement when you go back to New York. La Signorina Capricciosa, who broke the bank at Monte Carlo, will open at the—"
"Be still," said Worth.
"Dash it, business is business, and without publicity there isn't any business." O'Mally was hurt.
"Mr. O'Mally is right," said La Signorina. "It would be a good advertisement. But your combined opinion is what I want."
The three men looked at one another thoughtfully, then drew out their wallets, thin and worn. They made up a purse of exactly one hundred and fifty dollars, not at all a propitious sum to trap elusive fortune. But such as it was, O'Mally passed it across the table. This utter confidence in her touched La Signorina's heart; for none of them knew aught of her honesty. She turned aside for a moment and fumbled with the hidden chain about her neck. She placed her hand on the table and opened it. O'Mally gasped, Smith opened his mouth, and Worth leaned forward. An emerald, a glorious green emerald, free from the usual cluster of diamonds, alone in all its splendor, lay in the palm of her hand.
"I shall give this to you, Mr. O'Mally," said the owner, "till I return. It is very dear to me, but that must not stand in the way."
"Ye gods!" cried O'Mally in dismay. "Put it away. I shouldn't sleep o' nights with that on my person. Keep it. You haven't the right idea. We'll trust you anywhere this side of jail. No, no! It wouldn't do at all. But you're a brick all the same." And that was as near familiarity as O'Mally ever came.
She turned to Smith, but he put out a hand in violent protest; then to Worth, but he smiled and shook his head.
"O'Mally is right," he said. "We need no guaranty."
She put the ring away. It was her mother's. She never would smile in secret at these men again. They might be vain and artificial and always theatrical, but there was nevertheless a warm and generous heart beneath.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "If I lose your money we will all go to Florence. I have another plan, but that will keep till this one under hand proves a failure. None of you shall regret your confidence in me."
"Pshaw!" said O'Mally.
"Nonsense!" said Smith.
And Worth smiled reassuringly.
O'Mally beckoned to a waiter. "Oonybottlevino dee Asti, caldo, frappé!" he said loudly, so that all might hear him give the order. A month in Venice, and he would be able to talk like a native. True, if any Italian spoke to him, he was obliged to shake his head; but that was a trifling matter.
"Tom!" warned Smith.
"You let me alone," replied O'Mally. "A quart of Asti won't hurt anybody."
So the thin sweet wine of Asti was served, and La Signorina toasted them all gratefully.
Early the next morning she and Kitty departed for Monte Carlo in quest of fortune. Fortune was there, waiting, but in a guise wholly unexpected.
On the way up to Rome Hillard and his pupil had a second-class compartment all to themselves. The train was a fast one; for the day of slow travel has passed in Italy and the cry of speed is heard over the land. The train stopped often and rolled about a good deal; but the cushions were soft, and there was real comfort in being able to stretch out full length. Hillard, having made this trip many times, took the forward seat and fell into a doze.
Merrihew was like a city boy taking his first trip into the country. He hung out of the window, and smoked and smoked. Whenever the train swept round a curve he could look into the rear carriages; and the heads sticking out of the thirds reminded him of chicken-crates. Never had he seen such green gardens, such orange and lemon groves, such forests of olives. Save that it was barren rock, not a space as broad as a man's hand was left uncultivated; and not a farm which was not in good repair. One saw no broken fences, no slovenly out-houses, no glaring advertisements afield: nobody was asked impertinently if Soandso's soap had been used that morning, nor did thebambinicry for soothing-syrups. Everything was of stone (for wood is precious in Italy), generally whitewashed, and presenting the smiling countenance of comfort and cleanliness. The Italian in the city is seldom clean; there, it is so easy to lie in the gutters under the sun. Reared and bred in laziness for centuries, dirt has no terrors, but water has. With his brother in the country it is different. Labor makes him self-respecting. Merrihew had seen so many dirty Sicilians and Neapolitans working on American railways that he had come to the conclusion that Italy was the most poverty-stricken country in the world. He was now forming new opinions at the rate of one every hour.
How pretty were the peasants in the fields with their bright bits of color, a scarlet shawl, a skirt of faded blue, a yellow kerchief round the head! And the great white oxen at the plows! Sometimes he saw a strange, phantom-like, walled town hanging to some cliffs far away. It disappeared and reappeared and disappeared again. Never a chimney with the curling black smoke of the factory did he see above any of these clustered cities. When he recalled to mind the pall of soft-coal smoke which hangs over the average American city, he knew that while Italy might be cursed with poverty she had her blessing in fine clear skies. And always, swinging down the great roads, he saw in fancy the ghosts of armies, crusaders, mercenaries, feudal companies, crossbowmen, and knights in mail.
It amused him to see the buxom women flagging the train at crossings. And the little stations, where everybody rushed out to buy a drink of bottled water! Suddenly the station-master struck a bell, the conductor tooted a horn, and the engine's shrill whistle shrieked; and off they flew again. No newsboy to bother one with stale gum, rank cigars, ancient caramels and soiled novels; nothing but solid comfort. And oh! the flashing streams which rushed under bridges or plunged alongside. Merrihew's hand ached to hold a rod and whip the green pools where the fallen olive leaves floated and swam like silver minnows. Half a dozen times he woke Hillard to draw his attention to these streams. But Hillard disillusioned him. Rarely were there any fish, nor were these waters drinkable, passing as they did over immense beds of lime.
There was a change of cars at Rome and a wait of two hours. Hillard led the way to a popular café in the Piazza delle Terme, near the station. Here they lunched substantially. In that hour or so Merrihew saw more varied uniforms than he had seen in all his past life; perambulating parrakeets which glittered, smoked cigarettes or black cigars with straws in them, and drank coffee out of tumblers. He readily imagined that he was surrounded by enough dukes and princes and counts to run a dozen kingdoms, with a few left over for the benefit of the American market. He was making no mistakes now; he could distinguish a general from a hotel concierge without the least difficulty.
And still Americans, everywhere Americans; rich and poor Americans, loud and quiet Americans; Americans who had taste and education, and some who had neither; well-dressed and over-dressed, obtrusive and unobtrusive, parvenu and aristocrat. Once Merrihew saw a fine old gentleman wearing the Honor Legion ribbon in his buttonhole, and his heart grew warm and proud. Here was an order which was not to be purchased like the Order of Leopold and the French Legion of Honor. To win this simple order a man must prove his courage under fire, must be the author of an heroic exploit on the battle-field. And besides, there was this advantage: to servants in Europe a button or a slip of ribbon in the lapel signifies an order, a nobility of one sort or another, and as a consequence they treat the wearer with studied civility.
"I wish I had remembered," sighed Merrihew, after gazing at the old gentleman.
"Remembered what?"
"Why, I've got a whole raft of medals I won at college. I could wear them quite handily over here."
"Buy an order. Any pawnshop will have a few for sale. You could wear it in Switzerland or France, and nobody would be any the wiser."
"But I'm serious."
"So am I."
Merrihew brightened, reached into a vest pocket, and to Hillard's horror produced a monocle, which he gravely screwed in his eye.
"Where the—"
"Sh! If you make me laugh I'll drop it."
Merrihew stared about calmly and coldly, as he had seen some Englishmen do. A waiter, seeing the sun flash on the circle of crystal, hurried over, firmly believing he had been heliographed.
"Niente," said Merrihew, waving him aside. "You see?" he whispered to Hillard, who was rather amused at this tomfoolery. "Brings 'em without a word. Hanged if I don't wear it the rest of the trip. There's a certain—whatdyecallit?—eclaw about the demmed thing."
"Wear it, by all means. You'll be as amusing as a comic weekly. But if you ever drop it, I'll step on it accidentally."
"I can keep it in my eye all right," said Merrihew, "so long as I don't laugh. Now, while there's time, let us see some of the sights; the Golden House of Nero, for instance, and the Forum, the Colosseum, St. Peter's and the Vatican; just a passing glance at a few things, as it were." Merrihew as he spoke kept a sober countenance.
It deceived Hillard, who eyed him with unfeigned wonder, marveling that any rational mind should even think of such a thing, much less propose it.
"Why not run up to Venice and back?" he inquired sarcastically.
"Is it as far as that?" innocently. "Well, we'll make it just St. Peter's and the Vatican."
"Impossible! In the hour we have left we can see nothing, positively nothing. And even now we had better start for the station to get a compartment before the rush. St. Peter's and the Vatican! You talk like the Englishman who wanted to run over to San Francisco and back to Philadelphia in the morning."
A grin now spread over Merrihew's face. Hillard scratched his chin reflectively.
"I'll pay for the luncheon myself," he said.
"You had better. It was great sport to watch your face. I'll be in a happy frame of mind all day now."
After luncheon Merrihew secretly bought two boxes of cigars to carry along. They were good cigars and cost him fifteen dollars. He covered them with some newspapers, and at the station succeeded by some legerdemain in slipping them into one of his cases. Hillard would have lectured him on his extravagance, and this was a good way to avoid it. But some hours later he was going to be very sorry that he had not made a confidant of his guide. Merrihew had never heard of the town of Ventimiglia, which straddles the frontiers of France and Italy. As they were boarding the train they noticed two gentlemen getting into the forward compartment of the carriage.
"Humph! Our friend with the scar," said Hillard. "We do not seem able to shake him."
"I'd like to shake him. He goes against the grain, somehow." Merrihew swung into the compartment. "I wonder why the Sandfords dropped him?"
"For some good reason. They are a liberal pair, and if our friend forward offended them, it must have been something deliberate and outside the pale of forgiveness. But I should like to know where old Giovanni is. I miss him."
"Poor devil!" said Merrihew with careless sympathy. It is easy to be sympathetic with persons whose troubles are remote from our own.
The train started, and again they had the compartment.
"Monte Carlo! Gold, gold, little round pieces of gold!" Merrihew rubbed his hands like the miser inThe Chimes of Normandy.
"Hard to get and heavy to hold!" quoted Hillard. "I suppose that you have a system already worked out."
"Of course. I shall win if I stick to it."
"Or if the money lasts. Bury your system, my boy. It will do you no good. Trust to luck only. Monte Carlo is the graveyard of systems."
"But maybe my system is the one. You can't tell till I have tried it."
Merrihew lighted a cigar, and Hillard smiled secretly. After some time the conductor came in to examine the tickets. When the examination was over he paused in front of Merrihew, who puffed complacently.
"Signore," the conductor said politely, "e vietato fumare."
Merrihew replied with an uncomprehending stare.
"Non fumer!" said the conductor, with his hand at the side of his mouth, as one does to a person who is suddenly discovered to be hard of hearing.
Merrihew smiled weakly and signified that he did not understand.
"Nicht rauchen!" cried the official in desperation.
Merrihew extended his hands hopelessly. He had nothing belonging to the conductor. Hillard had the tickets.
"Niet rooken! Niet rooken!"
"I say, Jack, what the deuce does he want, anyhow?"
"Cigare, cigare!" The conductor gesticulated toward the window.
"Oh!" Merrihew took the cigar from his teeth and went through the pantomime of tossing it out of the window.
"Si, si!" assented the conductor, delighted that he was finally understood.
"You might have given me the tip," Merrihew grumbled across to Hillard. He viewed the halfburnt perfecto ruefully and filliped it through the window. "How should I know smoking was prohibited?"
"You had your joke; this is mine. Besides, I remained silent to the advantage of your future education. The conductor has spoken to you in four languages—Italian, French, German and Dutch." Hillard then spoke to the conductor. "May not my friend smoke so long as ladies do not enter?"
"Certainly, since it does not annoy you." Then the conductor bowed and disappeared into the next compartment.
Merrihew inscribed on the back of an envelope, for future reference, the four phrases, and in ten minutes had, with the assistance of his preceptor, mastered their pronunciations.
"I wish I had been born a hotel concierge," he said mournfully. "They speak all languages, and the Lord knows where they find the time to learn them."
"The Englishman, the Parisian and the American are the poorest linguists," said Hillard. "They are altogether too well satisfied with themselves and their environments to bother learning any language but their own, and most Americans do not take the trouble to do that."
"Hear, hear!"
"It is because I am a good patriot that I complain," said Hillard. "I love my country, big, healthy and strong as it is; but I wish my people would brush up their learning, so that these foreigners would have less right to make sport of us."
"There's some truth in what you say. But we are young, and going ahead all the time."
Soon the train began to lift into the mountains, the beautiful Apennines, and Merrihew counted so many tunnels he concluded that this was where the inventor of the cinematograph got his idea. Just as some magnificent valley began to unfold, with a roar the train dashed into a dank, sooty tunnel. One could neither read nor enjoy the scenery; nothing to do but sit tight and wait, let the window down when they passed a tunnel, lift it when they entered one. By the time they arrived in Genoa, late at night, both compared favorably with the coalers in the harbor of Naples.
The English and American tourists have done much toward making Italy a soap-and-water tolerating country (loving would be misapplied). But in Italy the State owns the railroads. There is water (of a kind), but never soap or towels.
Early the next morning the adventurers set out for Monte Carlo, taking only their hand-luggage. More tunnels. A compartment filled with women and children. And hot besides. But the incomparable beauty of the Riviera was a compensation. Ventimiglia, or Vintimille, has a sinister sound in the ears of the traveler, if perchance he be a man fond of his tobacco. A turbulent stream cuts the town in two. On the east side stands a gloomy barn of a station; on the other side one of the most picturesque walled towns in Europe, and of Roman antiquity. The train drew in. A dozen steps more, and one was virtually in France. But there is generally a slight hitch before one takes the aforesaid steps: the French customs. Afacchinopopped his head into the window.
"Eight minutes for examination of luggage!" he cried.
He held out his arms, and Hillard piled the luggage upon him.
"Come, Dan; lively, if we want good seats when we come out. We change trains."
The two men followed the porter to the ticket entrance, surrendered their coupons, and passed into the customs. The porter had to go round another way. After a short skirmish they located their belongings, which unfortunately were far down toward the end of the barrier. They would have to be patient. Hillard held in his hands his return coupons to Genoa. Sometimes this helps at the frontier; and if one has a steamer ticket, better still. Inspectors then understand that one is to be but a transient guest.
Among the inspectors at Ventimiglia is a small, wizened Frenchman, with a face as cold and impassive as the sand-blown Sphinx. He possesses among other accomplishments a nose, peculiar less for its shape than for its smell. He can "smell out" tobacco as a witch doctor in Zululand smells out a "devil." Fate directed this individual toward the Americans. Hillard knew him of old; and he never forgets a face, this wizened little man.