Part 9 (1/2)

Once, long before the world knew of her, she had returned home from Italy unexpectedly. ”Molly, here's Nora, from Tuscany!” her delighted father had cried: who at that time had a nebulous idea that Tuscany was somewhere in Ireland because it had a Celtic ring to it. Being filled with love of Italy, its tongue, its history, its physical beauty, she navely translated ”Nora from Tuscany” into Italian, and declared that when she went upon the stage she would be known by that name. There had been some smiling over the pseudonym; but Nora was Irish enough to cling to it. By and by the great music-loving public ceased to concern itself about her name; it was her fresh beauty and her wonderful voice they craved to see and hear. Kings and queens, emperors and empresses, princes and princesses,--what is called royalty and n.o.bility in the newspapers freely gave her homage. Quite a rise in the world for a little girl who had once lived in a shabby apartment in New York and run barefooted on the wet asphalts, summer nights!

But Nora was not recalling the happy scenes of her childhood; indeed, no; she was still threatening Paris. Once there, she would not lack for reprisals. To have played on her pity! To have made a lure of her tender concern for the unfortunate! Never would she forgive such baseness. And only a little while ago she had been as happy as the nightingale to which they compared her. Never had she wronged any one; she had been kindness and thoughtfulness to all with whom she had come in contact. But from now on!... Her fingers tightened round the bars. She might have posed as Dido when she learned that the n.o.ble aeneas was dead. War, war; woe to the moths who fluttered about her head hereafter!

Ah, but had she been happy? Her hands slid down the bars. Her expression changed. The mouth drooped, the eagle-light in her eyes dimmed. From out the bright morning, somewhere, had come weariness, and with this came weakness, and finally, tears.

She heard the key turn in the lock. They had never come so early before.

She was astonished to see that her jailer did not close the door as usual.

He put down the breakfast tray on the table. There was tea and toast and fruit.

”Mademoiselle, there has been a terrible mistake,” said the man humbly.

”Ah! So you have found that out?” she cried.

”Yes. You are not the person for whom this room was intended.” Which was half a truth and perfectly true, paradoxical as it may seem. ”Eat your breakfast in peace. You are free, Mademoiselle.”

”Free? You will not hinder me if I walk through that door?”

”No, Mademoiselle. On the contrary, I shall be very glad, and so will my brother, who guards you at night. I repeat, there has been a frightful mistake. Monsieur Champeaux ...”

”Monsieur Champeaux!” Nora was bewildered. She had never heard this name before.

”He calls himself that,” was the diplomatic answer.

All Nora's suspicions took firm ground again. ”Will you describe this Monsieur Champeaux to me?” asked the actress coming into life.

”He is short, dark, and old, Mademoiselle.”

”Rather is he not tall, blond, and young?” ironically.

The jailer concealed what annoyance he felt. In his way he was just as capable an actor as she was. The accuracy of her description startled him; for the affair had been carried out so adroitly that he had been positive that until her real captor appeared she would be totally in the dark regarding his ident.i.ty. And here she had hit it off in less than a dozen words. Oh, well; it did not matter now. She might try to make it unpleasant for his employer, but he doubted the ultimate success of her attempts. However, the matter was at an end as far as he was concerned.

”Have you thought what this means? It is abduction. It is a crime you have committed, punishable by long imprisonment.”

”I have been Mademoiselle's jailer, not her abductor. And when one is poor and in need of money!” He shrugged.

”I will give you a thousand francs for the name and address of the man who instigated this outrage.”

Ah, he thought: then she wasn't so sure? ”I told you the name, Mademoiselle. As for his address, I dare not give it, not for ten thousand francs. Besides, I have said that there has been a mistake.”

”For whom have I been mistaken?”

”Who but Monsieur Champeaux's wife, Mademoiselle, who is not in her right mind?” with inimitable sadness.

”Very well,” said Nora. ”You say that I am free. That is all I want, freedom.”

”In twenty minutes the electric tram leaves for Paris. You will recall, Mademoiselle,” humbly, ”that we have taken nothing belonging to you. You have your purse and hat and cloak. The struggle was most unfortunate. But, think, Mademoiselle, think; we thought you to be insane!”

”Permit me to doubt that! And you are not afraid to let me go?”

”Not in the least, Mademoiselle. A mistake has been made, and in telling you to go at once, we do our best to rectify this mistake. It is only five minutes to the tram. A carriage is at the door. Will Mademoiselle be pleased to remember that we have treated her with the utmost courtesy?”