The Place of Honeymoons

The singer leaned back against the cushions. She was very tired. The opera

that night had taxed her strength, and but for her promise she would not

have sung to the ambassador's guests for double the fee. There was an

electric bulb in the car. She rarely turned it on, but she did to-night.

She gazed into the little mirror; and utter weariness looked back from out

the most beautiful, blue, Irish eyes in the world. She rubbed her fingers

carefully up and down the faint perpendicular wrinkle above her nose. It

was always there on nights like this. How she longed for the season to

end! She would fly away to the lakes, the beautiful, heavenly tinted

lakes, the bare restful mountains, and the clover lawns spreading under

brave old trees; she would walk along the vineyard paths, and loiter under

the fig-trees, far, far away from the world, its clamor, its fickleness,

its rasping jealousies. Some day she would have enough; and then, good-by

to all the clatter, the evil-smelling stages, the impossible people with

whom she was associated. She would sing only to those she loved.

The glamour of the life had long ago passed; she sang on because she had

acquired costly habits, because she was fond of beautiful things, and

above all, because she loved to sing. She had as many moods as a bird, as

many sides as nature. A flash of sunshine called to her voice; the beads

of water, trembling upon the blades of grass after a summer shower,

brought a song to her lips. Hers was a God-given voice, and training had

added to it nothing but confidence. True, she could act; she had been told

by many a great impressario that histrionically she had no peer in grand

opera. But the knowledge gave her no thrill of delight. To her it was the

sum of a tremendous physical struggle.

She shut off the light and closed her eyes. She reclined against the

cushion once more, striving not to think. Once, her hands shut tightly.

Never, never, never! She pressed down the burning thoughts by recalling

the bright scenes at the ambassador's, the real generous applause that had

followed her two songs. Ah, how that man Paderewski played! They two had

cost the ambassador eight thousand francs. Fame and fortune! Fortune she

could understand; but fame! What was it? Upon a time she believed she had

known what fame was; but that had been when she was striving for it. A

glowing article in a newspaper, a portrait in a magazine, rows upon rows

of curious eyes and a patter of hands upon hands; that was all; and for

this she had given the best of her life, and she was only twenty-five.

The limousine stopped at last. The man in the Bavarian hat saw her alight.

His car turned and disappeared. It had taken him a week to discover where

she lived. His lodgings were on the other side of the Seine. After

reaching them he gave crisp orders to the driver, who set his machine off

at top speed. The man in the Bavarian hat entered his room and lighted the

gas. The room was bare and cheaply furnished. He took off his coat but

retained his hat, pulling it down still farther over his eyes. His face

was always in shadow. A round chin, two full red lips, scantily covered by

a blond mustache were all that could be seen. He began to walk the floor

impatiently, stopping and listening whenever he heard a sound. He waited

less than an hour for the return of the car. It brought two men. They were

well-dressed, smoothly-shaven, with keen eyes and intelligent faces. Their

host, who had never seen either of his guests before, carelessly waved his

hand toward the table where there were two chairs. He himself took his

stand by the window and looked out as he talked. In another hour the room

was dark and the street deserted.