The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 64

She laughed, and said, in reply, "You are my especial artist, you know, and history tells us that even queens visit their painters--"

"For example, the d.u.c.h.ess of Ferrara!" said a young man to a friend, in a low voice. He had caught her words as he pa.s.sed, and hazarded this allusion, somewhat too broad, perhaps, to the visit paid by the d.u.c.h.ess to t.i.tian, when she was painted in the costume of mother Eve. He undoubtedly supposed that the young lady would not understand his remark, and yet it was plain that she with difficulty restrained a laugh.

She led Goutran to the picture gallery. "I am told," she said, "that you have two great surprises for your guests, to-night."

"Oh! no; only one. You have heard of Jane Zeld, that marvelous bird who has come to us from Finland, Lapland, or some other place--we will call it Russia?"

"But I was told that she had refused to sing in Paris at present--declined even to go to Compiegne."

"Yes, but for you," and Goutran bowed low, "I have obtained what was refused to an Emperor!"

He pressed Carmen's arm against his own, as he spoke.

The girl turned and looked him full in the face for a moment. "Take me to my father," she said.

Was it fancy, or did she emphasize the two words, "my father," in an odd sort of way?

As in silence he obeyed her request, which though brief, was by no means stern, a singular scene was taking place.

Signor f.a.giano, who talked little, was wandering about through the salons. Suddenly he found himself face to face with Monsieur de Laisangy.

Signor f.a.giano started back, and half covered his face with his hand, but in turning to make good his retreat, he half stumbled and fell.

The banker instinctively extended his hand to a.s.sist him. f.a.giano bowed low as he recovered himself, and went into another room.

There was certainly nothing very remarkable in this incident, but Carmen started and instantly hastened to the side of the banker, who seemed calmly indifferent to what had taken place. Seeing this, her anxiety, if she felt any, was dissipated, and she began to talk to Goutran.

At this moment the footman announced two names: "Mademoiselle Jane Zeld!" "The Vicomte de Monte-Cristo!"

"You see, I did have two surprises for you," said Goutran.

But suddenly he exclaimed, "My dear Monsieur de Laisangy, you are ill, I fear--"

"No, no," stammered the banker, "but it is very warm here, and I will go out on the terrace a while, if you will permit me."

He left his daughter, who seemed to attach little importance to this sudden indisposition of her father's.

Goutran went forward to receive his new guests. A murmur of admiration greeted the lady--Jane Zeld, the cantatrice.

She was tall and slender, and dressed in black tulle with crimson roses.

She advanced with a smile on her lips. She was young, not more than twenty-two, with dark hair raised over her brow like a diadem and falling at the back of her head in loose braids. Her complexion was clear but pale, her eyes were almond-shaped with long lashes and had a singular fixity of expression.

Who was she? No one knew. She had appeared on the stage of public life in a singular way. There had been a fire about two months before at one of the theatres, and a musical evening had been organized for the benefit of the victims.

Society, which likes amus.e.m.e.nts and is willing to be benevolent at the same time, had responded to the appeal, and on the evening of the performance the hall was crowded. The princ.i.p.al attraction was the return to public life of a tenor, who had had a fit of the sulks and had deserted the stage. He had promised to sing with the Diva a celebrated duet. When the audience had a.s.sembled a message arrived at the theatre.

The Diva was ill, or pretended to be so, and now, at the last moment, announced that it was impossible to appear.

This was terrible. The tenor was implored to sing alone, but he positively refused, and the non-appearance of the two stars made the affair an utter fiasco. Artists and journalists, director and secretaries a.s.sembled in the _foyer_--all talked together in their excitement. The tenor, half lying on a couch, caressed his black beard, while he listened with nonchalance to the entreaties addressed to him.

But the moment was rapidly approaching when the fatal announcement must be made to the audience.

Presently a voice began to sing the jewel song from Faust. The singer was at the piano in the _foyer_, but was so enveloped in black lace that she could hardly be seen. Her voice was so good, her method so perfect, that every one listened in delight. Even the tenor, for he was a thorough musician, was completely carried away.

The lady finished the song, then rising from her seat she stood leaning against the piano without the smallest embarra.s.sment.

The tenor went forward. "Madame," he said, "do you know the duet we were about to sing?"

The singer reseated herself at the piano and playing a prelude, sang two or three bars with exquisite expression.

"Madame," began the tenor.

"Mademoiselle," corrected the lady, raising her vail.

"You have a hundred times more talent than Mademoiselle X."

"We will not talk of her, and she must always remain in ignorance of this defection of one of her greatest admirers."

But the feeling against the prima donna was that day of excessive bitterness, and every one agreed with the tenor.

"Will you sing with me?" asked the tenor.

The lady answered, "As this fete is for charity, I cannot decline."

The director then said:

"We will express our thanks later, dear lady; please give me your name that I may make the announcement."

The tenor lifted his head.

"I will lead the lady on, and that is quite enough."

When the public saw that the singer was not the celebrated X. they were for a moment confounded, but the tenor was the guaranty, he could not be mistaken. The duet began; never had the tenor sang so well.

The unknown was a thorough artist. She looked like a statue of Pa.s.sion, as she stood at the piano, and her triumph was so great that it was the talk of Paris for three days. But the strangest part of all was, that after receiving this ovation she disappeared. The reporters could not find her. Finally one of them, more indefatigable than the others, discovered her in a small hotel on the Champs Elysees. Her name was inscribed as Jane Zeld, from Russia, and she was accompanied by an intendant named Maslenes.

The reporter, armed with this information, proceeded to concoct a legend. She belonged, he said, to a great family in Russia. She had left her home "for reasons which the _Journal_ was not at liberty to reveal."

For a fortnight, managers and directors were on the _qui vive_, but as a poetical personage of importance took this time to commit suicide, the name of Jane Zeld was gradually forgotten.

When two days before his fete, Goutran received a perfumed note in which Jane offered to sing for him, he was charmed.

The lady entered the room, followed at some little distance by Esperance, who had conquered his timidity and come. His father had bidden him "live," and the young man felt that he was in a measure obeying his order when he drove to Goutran's studio, where he arrived just in time to a.s.sist the fair stranger from her carriage.

The horizon of Paris is so vast that there is always room for a new star. And Jane Zeld, even if she had not shrouded herself in so much mystery, and without a voice, would have been conspicuous for her beauty, which was of aristocratic delicacy. Her lips were like pomegranate flowers in their rich red. Her bust was discreetly vailed, her arms were beautifully rounded, firm and white, and terminated in exquisite hands.

Goutran had begged Esperance to come to his fete. The Vicomte did so, and Goutran seemed to forget his presence. Only a few curious glances were turned upon him. All eyes were watching Jane who, too, seemed to forget the person who had so gallantly a.s.sisted her from her carriage.

Every one was eager for an introduction to this queen of the evening, and when she went to the piano a great hush fell upon the room. She sang melodies, Slavonic airs, that had never before been heard in Paris, and then an aria of a great composer, and when she concluded there was immense applause.

"Do you know," said a voice, in the ear of the host, "that you are a most eccentric person!"