A prima donna of the slums; a story of intrigue of the days of the third Napoleon

Front matter

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Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Conspirators 7

II The Enemy 16

II The Enemy

The old man jumped to his feet in a towering rage, and would have hurled a knife at the musician, but a heavy fall and a groan in the next room attracted his attention and unnerved his arm. He stood listening, with a face as white as his ample shirt-front, not knowing what had happened, and fearing the worst. Marino put his finger to his lips and stole on tiptoe to the partition separating the two rooms. It was composed of thin planks covered with ordinary wall paper. Marino touched the paper gently with the point of his fingers, and felt round until he found a spot where the timbers were not closely joined. He then took out his penknife and with the large blade cut the paper in the shape of a tongue. He pushed that back, and was fortunate to have discovered a slit that would show what was passing on the other side — unfortunately the way was still blocked by 16 the paper in the adjoining room. Marino made light of that and soon had a loophole.

He gazed through it carefully for some time, and then turned back to the old man, dismay and fear blanching his rounded cheeks. He put his hands over his mouth and whispered in the old man’s ear: “The enemy!”

“Police?” gasped his excellency.

“Count Brutus Besnard, one of the councilors of state of M. Napoleon, and his son Marcel.”

“The man who murdered Lavetti.”

“After having run away with his wife.”

The old man grasped a knife, and was making for the door, but Marino held him in his powerful arms and shook his head.

“He was the friend of my boyhood, my brother in arms — the bravest of the brave. I will avenge him.”

“It has been sworn, leave it to steadier hands.”

The old man fell on the sofa in deep distress. Marino laid him back against it tenderly and went over once more to the peep-hole.

After a while his excellency recovered, and in turn went to examine the people in the next apartment.

The young man stood at the back of his father’s chair, supporting him in it, while •the daughter was giving him brandy. At his 'feet lay the evening paper. The second young lady was fanning the old man, who appeared to be just recovering from a severe shock.

It was evident that he too had heard the noises in the streets, and the boys calling out the dispatches in the evening papers. He had sent for one, and the news had struck him down. “My beloved master!” he cried, as he sank in a heap: Those present went to his assistance, and Were bringing him to when the old man saw him.

A physicicln was sent for, and ordered the count to be laid out on the sofa against the wall.' Marcel Besnard said that they desired to return to Paris at once, in consequence of the attempt on the Emperor’s life, but the ■'ddctbr refused to allow the count to be removed for several hours.

As the count lay on the sofa his face was turned toward the old man and Marino, and they could watch its painful workings.

“Ah! brigand!” exclaimed the old man, “you are suffering now, but you little cared what you inflicted when you enticed away his

AT HIS FEET LAY THE EVENING PAPER

I

A PRIMA DONNA OF THE SLtJMS beautiful wife, and drove a dagger in his breast. They tried to kill your friend, did they.^ The day will come when they will pay 3^ou the same compliment. Assassin!” he hissed bet>veen his teeth.

Marino drew him away, lest by some imprudence he should reveal their presence, and placed him once more on the sofa.

“ By Jove, your excellency, you seem to have grown young and heavy again.”

“I have, Marino; I have! I am back in the days of the bells, in the days when I roamed the mountains with my friend. Ah !”

Marino placed his hand over the old man’s mouth, and the latter grasped his wrists with a grasp of iron. The professor winced.

Ill

THE PRIMA DONNA

Presently the old man rose, and going to the window pushed it open. Marino followed him, fearful of an incautious burst. He went out on the balcony, and leaned over the railing. The professor did the same. They were looking up and down the crowded street when a street band stopped in front of the house. It was accompanied by a young girl who sang. There were violins that rasped dreadfully and a harp out of tune. The girl sang the Brindisi of Traviata, that “Libi amo ne lieti calici,” so popular all over the world.

“Nice voice,” said Marino, “but no method. Ah, if I had only been able to give her some lessons.”

“Good!” cried the old man. “Good, little girl! Here’s a shilling for you,” and he flung the coin to her. “Now come up here, and sing us a little song.”

The girl raised her head, finished her bra- 20 vura, and entered the house. A few seconds later she tapped on the door.

Marino let her in.

She was a superb creature, young, dashing, with the dark skin of the Italian, and deep violet eyes. The raven hair tumbled to the hips twined in heavy cords, and was bound up in front with a gold pin. The features recalled, in their purity, the lovely women of the Transterene idealized to divinity by the marvelous Sanzio. She was strangely dressed. She wore a costume aiming at comic opera. The petticoat was red, and had been, probably, the garment of some public favorite. It was purchased, no doubt, from the refuse of the Covent Garden Theater; and now decked out a figure matchless in its graceful flowing outline. The skirt was gauzy and trimmed with gold lace. The bodice was white, decorated with artificial flowers, and at the throat was a bunch of wild roses. She 'walked into the middle of the room, this prima donna of the slums, and stood gazing at the two men. She revealed her pearly even teeth as she smiled and bowed.

“Here I am, sir,” she said, addressing the old man, after having carefully studied both.

A I^RIMA DONNA OF THE SLUMS

“What shall I sing you — 'Santa Lucia?’ Oh! but you have no piano here to accompany me.”

The old man put his glasses on his eyes to examine the young woman.

“That’s true,” he said, “we have not. So you speak French, my dear.”

“Yes, sir, my father was a teacher at Marseilles.”

“You were born in France then?”

“No, sir,” proudly, “in Rome, at the Borgo.”

“The daughter of a professor, excuse me, you must be quite learned.”

“Yes, I know everything, even to ignoring what I ought not to know.”

She laughed, observing that the men laughed also.

The old man replied, pointing to the wild roses at her throat:

“Give me the bouquet, little one.”

“Never, it is a talisman.”

“Against the evil eye?”

“Your own is not so good. No, I like these flowers, my father was very fond of them.”

“Well said. Hurrah for sentiment! What is your name?”

“Bella.”

A PRIMA DONNA OF THE SLUiVfS

“That’s your professional name, but the other, the real one.” ;

She shrugged her shoulders.- ’ ' • ^ ^

“Won’t you tell me.?” • : .

“I don’t wish to.”

“Ho, ho! There is a secret attached to it,' out with it.” : .

She hesitated a morrient, and looking straight at both men said:. ■ ^

“You are Italians; so am I; my name is Rosina Lavetti. ”

Both jumped to their feet, and she stood like a queen before them. • ‘ • ■ ’

“La-vet-ti!” gasped the old man. • • • •

“Hush!” whispered Marino. ’

“Scipione Lavetti!” ^

“My father. He was murdered by a French-^- man, while aiding the sacred cause of liberty in France. The miserable wretch! I have sworn to plant a stiletto in hrs heart! It was in Provence, after the Coiip diinhg

the great insurrection in the Midi. ■ He had previously broken my molher’s heart.- SLe* left the righting of the wrong to nie', andTam strong enough to accomplish it. My mdther’

fled with me here, and died in a garret. She taught me all she could while yet alive, and then I had to take to the streets to make a living — but some day, some day !”

“The day has come.”

“What do you mean.^^ Do not jest with me! I am a child of the slums. I have starved and thirsted, I have been kicked and cuffed, and beaten and robbed. I am used to everything. Don’t try to play with me.”

“I mean what I say, the day has come!”

“Look here,” she cried, going up to the old man. “My father was your friend.”

“He was.”

“I am twenty-two, I am not ugly; revenge him, and I will give myself up to you body and soul.”

“Hush!” he whispered, and led her stealthily to the crack in the partition.

“You see the old man?”

“Yes.”

“That is the assassin.”

“Besnard!” And she made a dart for the door. The men were watching her, however, and intercepted her.

“Let me go; let me go!” she cried, as she struggled to get free.

“No, no, not here, not now. You see the young man.^*’^

“Yes.”

“That is his son.”

“Fine-looking man.”

“It is through him we must first strike,” Vv^hispered Marino.

“I understand,” said Rose.

“The light-haired young woman is his promised wife.”

“He shall never marry her.”

“The other is his sister.”

“I will destroy them all, she cried, clutching her ears with her sunburned hands. They moved back into the room away from the split.

“Come and see me, Rose.”

“When.?”

“To-morrow,” said the old man.

“What street.?”

“Piccadilly, number 3.”

“Whom shall I ask for.?”

“Prince Guido de Carpegna.”

IV

jack

Rose joined her companions on the street, and informed them she was not going to sing any more that night. They were used to sudden changes of mind in her, so they just shrugged their shoulders, and walked away. She ran to her little room in Soho, changed her costume for a black dress and hat, and then set off, at full speed, for a certain set of chambers in the Temple. A young barrister by the name of Jack Burroughs occupied these chambers. He was a light-haired giant, with mustache enough to serve two men. He had bright blue eyes, regular features, and skin as fair as a woman’s. He was slow of movement, slow of speech, slow to quarrel or make love, slow in everything, but especially tardy in the matter of bills. Jack was not rich, and as yet he had not achieved sufficient reputation to bring him much business. He was patiently waiting for it, however, and as it 26

A PRIM A DONNA OK THE SLUMS 27

was slow in coming, it appeared to Jack that it was approaching naturally. He was lying on a sofa, smoking, when Rose entered the room.

“Hallo! Rose,” he exclaimed, as he put his feet on the floor and sat up. “I’ve been rather expecting you, I don’t know why.”

“That’s curious,” she answered, “for here I am. It shows, too, that you think of me sometimes, Jack.”

“I •think of you all the time, beauty. I am glad you came, though it’s a good deal earlier that your regular hour.”

“Does my presence inconvenience you.^”

“No, but the fact is, I would have made some little preparation in the way of fire and supper.”

“Yes, Jack, your fire is abominably low for a cold night, and it is a very cold night — I am chilled to the bone. Put some coal on.”

“I would, dear, but the fact is Brazier promised to be back an hour ago, and has not yet put* in an appearance, and Mrs. Todbury has been out of sorts all day.”

“So much so that she won't come down and make up the fire.^ You owe her a bill, of course.

am afraid, beauty, I owe a bill to everybody, you included.’’

“No, you paid me back what I lent you.”

“I am glad to hear it. I don’t remember it.”

“Ring and get Mrs.Todbury down, give her that half crown, and tell her to bring some coal and make up a fire. This room smells like a grave.”

“I think I won’t ring, beauty; she might not answer the bell. These old women are so peculiar. I’ll just step up and talk to her — the money will settle the business.”

“Hurry up; I want you to take me out to supper.”

Jack flew up the stairs; Rose paced the room until he came back.

“Put on your hat and coat, and take me to a good place. Jack. I am dreadfully hungry.”

“All right, beauty, you shall have the finest in the town. I am in good appetite myself; for, to be candid with you, through Brazier’s want of punctuality I missed my dinner.”

“Make up for it in the supper, Jack. There is the money. ”

“Phew! You must have found a pocketbook.”

“Never mind, Jack, let us go and enjoy ourselves.”

“All right, come along.”

They had a good dinner, and plenty of wine, and when it was all over Jack said:

“Now, let us go and see whether Mrs. Todbury has made a good fire.”

“All right, Jack, I am ready.”

They started for the rooms, and sure enough, Mrs. Todbury had done her work well. The hearth was blazing, and the room smelled like an oven. Rose was delighted with it, and stood on the sofa and sang to Jack. She then danced a pas setil, and he almost made his hands sore applauding her.

“Now, Jack,” she said, “lie down on the sofa as you were when I came in, and I will sit here on the carpet beside you, for I want to have a serious talk with you.”

“All right, beauty,” said Jack, stretching himself at full length on the sofa.

“Pipe.?”

“No, I want to hear the talk.”

“My gentle savage,” she exclaimed, taking his head between her hands and kissing his eyes. “My loving, darling Jack.”

“Say, beauty, there’s something the matter.”

“There is, and you are to listen to it and not say a word. Do you promise me to keep quiet

“I promise.”

“Jack, I am going to leave you. This is the last night we shall be together. Not a word, not a sound. It is hard on me to go, don’t make it harder. I love you. Jack, love you, love you! Oh! God! how it strains my heart to leave you. But I must go, Jack. I am not going to any one else; I could not do that. I am going away ! you shall never see or hear of me again — now stop, you gave me your word and you always keep your word to me. You want to say that I have been tempted to join a band of what you call, ‘those murderous ruffians in Windmill Street.’ I have not. I have joined no band of conspirators. I will not. This is a family affair — my family; my mother; my father — I am going on business they left behind for me to do — a sacred duty, and I am going about it. I have been waiting this for years; it has come, I must obey the summons. Now, Jack, if you love me, and have any little lingering respect for my memory, and the happy nights and days we have passed together, let me go in peace. The dream is over, let us wake up to the realities of life. Don’t try to follow me, don’t try to seek me out; you could not find me, although I am not going to be shut up, but I shall be in a strange land, among strange people, and your home is here in England.”

She broke down and sobbed aloud.

Jack sat up and gazed into the fire.

He lit his pipe, and sat down to smoke. He got up and leisurely paced the room. He stood in front of the fire, his legs wide apart, a coat-tail on each arm, and said:

“Rose, I’d find you if you went to live on the Himalaya mountains, and when I found you I’d go after you.”

“No, no. Jack, you would not do that.”

“I would.”

“Not after I had forbidden you.”

“Just the same. I may have to walk, but I would reach there.”

“Oh, Jack! Oh, Jack, that would be cruel to me, and may hinder the purpose of my life.”

“Sorry.”

“I asked you not to make it harder for me than it is, and you are making it harder. I thought you would be kind, and meet me in this trouble in your own sweet, gentle, loving way, but I see that you are selfish, egotistical, mean.”

“Beauty, tell me the whole story.”

“I can’t.”

“Do y(ju fear me.?”

“I do, I do,*I do! I fear no one nor anything but you, and I fear you. I fear myself when you are near me.”

“Show me it is for your advantage and I shall remain where I am.”

“I cannot, no, I cannot.”

“Then there is some dark mystery behind it that will not bear the light of day; it now becomes my duty to scent that out.”

“No, Jack, no, you won’t do that. You won’t try it. There, I won’t go. I’ll stay — you have conquered me, and broken down the purpose of my life.”

She rushed over to him and threw her arms around his neck.

“Be a sensible little woman, and things will come out all right. I know these low-browed fellows that hang around the back alleys are always trying to get you in their clutches, but you keep away from them, and no harm will come to me. They are not near so fierce as they look.”

“Oh! Jack! oh! Jack,” she sobbed, and he lifted her in his arms like an infant. He placed her beside him on the seat, and kissed away her tears. She looked up smiling at him at last, but if he could have read her heart he would have seen a great grief there that she would soon be compelled to deceive him — that she was not frank, not honest with him, as she desired to be, but deceiving him to ward off suffering and gain time.

• THE CHANGE

Rose appeared at No. 3 Piccadilly the following morning at eleven o’clock. The prince was up, and waiting to receive her. He bowed courteously as she entered his presence and motioned her to a seat.

“You have not changed since last night, I see.”

“You will in future be known as the Princess Carpegna; you will be introduced to the fashionable people in the French capital; we start for there as .soon as you can get ready.”

“It may take me some time to prepare for such a sudden change as that.”

“Not so long as you imagine. In the next room you will se,e a lady whom you can consult on the matter of attire; when you have talked with her, you will find breakfast, and your most humble servant, waiting.”

She bowed and left the room.

He could not help admiring the waving lines of her graceful figure as she passed out of the door.

The woman in the next room knew her business. She had come prepared with everything. In half an hour she had Rose looking like the princess she was to be in future. Rose was somewhat taller than the woman had anticipated, and the traveling dresses and cloaks had to be changed. When Rose removed her old black dress, and the other things she had gone there in, she called the maid to make a parcel of them; she had them done up in a white cloth and the letter “J” marked on the outside of it.

‘‘Why, you don’t want to keep these things, princess,” said the woman in amazement.

“I do,” replied Rose; “put them at the bottom of the trunk.

When she returned to the prince he could hardly believe his eyes. She wore a heavily embroidered white satin wrapper with a long train of ruby plush. She walked with a slow and easy carriage that well became her, and one would have thought, looking at her, that she had never quitted the purple of her ancestors.

“Blood will tell,” thought the count; “she is regal.”

He gave his arm and led her to the diningroom beyond. He seated her, and took a chair opposite. After breakfast they returned to the sitting-room.

“Princess,” said the old man, “we are going to Paris to take up the work of justice. I will give you a foremost place, and everything but the legal right to my name. I will ask nothing in return but a strict performance of duty, and the pleasure of dining with you once in a while.”

She bowed.

“You shall be free, absolutely free, only I warn you against obstructive alliances.

“I shall obey you in all things.”

“If there should be any little affair here in England”—

“I am here, sir, to carry out a sacred trust, and I shall accomplish it without flinching.”

“Oh! yes. Well, I won’t refer to that again. I leave you now to your maid; we start iX two hours.”

He rose and left her.

Rose stood on the deck of the boat looking back as it sailed away from England. She was thinking of Jack, “dear old Jack.” She had a tightening at the heart when she remembered she had left without even saying good-bye to him, being compelled to content herself with kissing the frame of the door on the sly as she left the house. She wondered what he was doing at that moment, and thinking about. She would never see him again; he was lost to her forever.

VI An Imperial Wednesday

On the evening of November 24, 1856, the palace of the Tuileries was brilliantly illuminated.

Several lines of carriages stood in the Place du Carrousel, leaving women in evening dress and men in uniform at the entrance. It was the first ball of the winter season, an official Wednesday.

The rooms were very crowded, and the dancing was already quite animated when Viscount Marcel Besnard, just out of his club, appeared in the midst of the guests.

He was a man about twenty-eight years of age, tall, of fine presence, dark, with a flashing black eye. He had the manners and dress of the fashionable young men of the period, a long mustache, pointed at the ends, imperial, hair parted in the middle, the dash and vigor of the Parisian. He wore the costume of a secretary of the Council of State 38

— a blue frock with facings, embroidered collar, white trousers, straight sword, hat with feathers carelessly tossed on the band. With a glance he swept the first gallery, where the people were so thick it was almost impossible to move through them. By making artful detours, however, he managed to reach the Marshal’s Hall. He was stopped at the threshold; a triple line of men and women barred his passage. At that moment the Emperor was dancing a quadrille, and people were rushing from every room to see him.

Besnard retraced his steps, and took a seat in one of the ante-chambers, tired and out of sorts. Before him spread out the dancers, mostly persons of the inferior public life. The Marshal’s Hall was reserved for the high dignities and the foreign embassadors.

Marcel watched the coming and going like a man long familiar with the splendors of the imperial Wednesdays, when suddenly his attention was called in another direction.

“And how is the greatest of viscounts.?” said a young man to him, wearing the uniform of foreign affairs.

“Is that you, Gravenoire!” said Marcel.

“How are you, old chap? Heavens! what a horrible jam!”

“It appears there are over a thousand invitations, the flower of the Empire! What a bouquet! How is Count Besnard?”

“My father? Much better, thanks. He has come back from the seaside, and has resumed his work in the State Council.”

“I am happy to hear such good news of him. What was the matter?”

“A nervous affection, the doctors did not seem to understand it. But, in spite of that, he is now, thank heaven, entirely restored.”

“Are you alone, count?”

“Absolutely alone, with my fatigue.”

“Your sister did not accompany you?”

Marcel shrugged his shoulders. “No, she remained with her father. Besides, you know she never goes out. God! Gravenoire! What is that?”

Gravenoire turned in the direction of his friend’s eyes, and saw a young woman, sitting in a chair, surrounded by a circle of admirers. She was resplendently beautiful. Dark, very dark, with deep violet eyes, superb shoulders, and a form that might be copied for a Venus. Her raven hair, wavy in front, fell back in long tresses, that graciously framed the oval face. She wore a garland of wild roses, glittering with diamonds, and in her corsage a bouquet of the same flowers.

She lounged carelessly in the chair, displaying, almost on the knees of her neighbors, the amplitude of her yellow satin robe, with triple flounces of black lace. She toyed with a large marabout fan, fofding it, opening it, and covering her face with it, in a series of movements coquettish and meditative. She was surrounded by men of all ages, old beaux and young fellows, and each sought a smile with equal intensity. They elbowed one another to keep near her, and practiced their wit to entertain her.

This wonderful person was unquestionably enjoying herself. At every jest, a little risky, she threw herself back in the chair, and swung the fan. Her eyes danced with pleasure, and it was easy to see she was accustomed to flattery. In one of her sudden twists the dress drew up, exposing the foot, and then there was a burst of admiration. She corrected the indiscretion of her petticoats at once, and frowned at the men. It was a merry frown, however, and no one took it seriously.

“What is that woman?’’ asked the count of his friend.

Gravenoire looked at him in astonishment.

“You don’t know her? That is Rose.”

“What Rose?”-

“You pain me, count. Have you become a hermit? You don’t know Rose, the society beauty of the day, the Princess de Carpegna?”

Marcel laughed.

“I don’t know her,” he said, “but I am willing to. That’s a singular name she’s got. Where did she get it? In the slums?”

“No, indeed; she is a fide princess. The Carpegnas are an illustrious family of the Romagna. Dante has devoted a whole verse to them in the purgatory of the ‘Divine Comedy.’ She was a Countess d’A Prata. Her family belonged to the old nobility of Ravenna; but of that I only affirm what I have heard. However it may be, she is a charming woman. I was presented to her last year at Venice. She occupied a palace on the grand canal — received the cream of society, and lived in grand style.”

Marcel was examining her attentively, studying her at a distance, as it were, with his glass in his eye.

“She is very beautiful, no doubt about that. But what an odd toilet. A garland of red roses with a yellow satin dress. I don’t like strangers.”

“She is quite Parisian in her style, however, the beautiful Rose. She pretends to promise everything to everybody and accords nothing.” “Ah!”

“Quite true.”

“But what an affectation that is, to wear the Austrian colors.”

“That is done, probably, in honor of her noble Husband, who was an old conspirator, at present repentant and restored to the favor of the tyrants.”

“There is a husband, then.?”

“Oh, very little! He is rarely seen; it is even said that they detest one another, and live apart.”

“In that case present me.”

“Lovelace.?”

“By no means.”

They went over to the princess. “Monsieur de Gravenoire !” cried Mme. de Carpegna, on seeing the attache to the embassy — “You have become quite rare for some time.”

Gravenoire excused himself in the press of business at the embassy.

“I am now at Passy,” continued the young woman,” in my little house in Garden Street.”

“You don’t want a gardener, I suppose, princess ?”

“No, nor a coachman either; but I receive my friends there with pleasure, who wish to make the pilgrimage.”

“Madame,” said Gravenoire, “allow me to present to you my friend. Viscount Marcel Besnard.”

The faintest tint of red flashed across the pale face of the princess as she looked up at the young viscount.

“M. Marcel Besnard, of the family of the Count Brutus Besnard.?” said the princess.

“My father, madame,” said Marcel.

“Formerly Attorney General?”

“The Same.”

The violet eyes were fixed on him a moment, and then extending to him her hand she said:

“Friend of one of my friends, you are, from this moment out, my friend; sit down.”

The old Baron de Chesnaye, a chamberlaindeputy, pretended to be ill-used by the favor shown to Marcel, and the princess laughed heartily.

A PRiaiA DONNA OF THE SLUMS

“Will the princess deign to accord me the favor of a waltz?” said Marcel.

She rose at once.