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Page 57
"You do not sing now?" asked Laura across the table.
"No," Hildegarde answered, "my voice is gone."
"Oh, I am so sorry."
"It does not matter. I can hum a little to myself; there is yet some
pleasure in that. But in opera, no, never again. Has not Mrs.
Coldfield told you? No? Imagine! One night in Dresden, in the middle
of the aria, my voice broke miserably and I could not go on."
"And her heart nearly broke with it," interposed Mrs. Coldfield, with
the best intentions, nearer the truth than she knew. "I am sorry,
Laura, that I never told you before."
Hildegarde laughed. "Sooner or later this must happen. I worked too
hard, perhaps. At any rate, the opera will know me no more."
There was the hard blue of flint in Cathewe's eyes as they met and held
Breitmann's. There was a duel, and the latter was routed. But hate
burned fiercely in the breast against the man who could compel him to
lower his eyes. Some day he would pay back that glance.
Now, M. Ferraud had missed nothing. He twisted the talk into other
channels with his usual adroitness, but all the while there was
bubbling in his mind the news that these two men had met before. The
history of Hildegarde von Mitter was known to him. But how much did
she know, or this man Cathewe? The woman was a thoroughbred. He,
Anatole Ferraud, knew; it was his business to know; and that she should
happen upon the scene he considered as one of these rare good pieces of
luck that fall to the lot of few. There would be something more than
treasure hunting here; an intricate comedy-drama, with as many
well-defined sides as a diamond. He ate his endive with pleasure and
sipped the old yellow _Pol Roger_ with his eyes beaming toward the
gods. To be, after a fashion, the prompter behind the scenes; to be
able to read the final line before the curtain! Butterflies and
butterflies and pins and pins.
Did Laura note any of the portentous glances, those exchanged between
the singer and Cathewe and Breitmann? Perhaps. At all events she felt
a curiosity to know how long Hildegarde von Mitter had known her
father's secretary. There was no envy in her heart as again she
acknowledged the beauty of the other woman; moreover, she liked her and
was going to like her more. Impressions were made upon her almost
instantly, for good or bad, and rarely changed.
She turned oftenest to Fitzgerald, for he made particular effort to
entertain, and he succeeded better than he dreamed. It kept turning
over in her mind what a whimsical, capricious, whirligig was at work.
It was droll, this man at her side, chatting to her as if he had known
her for years, when, seven or eight days ago, he had stood, a man all
unknown to her, on a city corner, selling plaster of Paris statuettes
on a wager; and but for Mrs. Coldfield, she had passed him for ever.
Out upon the prude who would look askance at her for harmless daring!
"Drop into my room before you turn in," urged Fitzgerald to Cathewe.
"That I shall, my boy. I've some questions to ask of you."
But a singular idea came into creation, and this was for him, Cathewe,
to pay Breitmann a visit on the way to Fitzgerald's room. Not one man
in a thousand would have dared put this idea into a plan of action.
But neither externals nor conventions deterred Cathewe when he sought a
thing. He rapped lightly on the door of the secretary's room.
"Come in."
Cathewe did so, gently closing the door behind him. Breitmann was in
his shirt-sleeves. He rose from his chair and laid down his cigarette.
A faint smile broke the thin line of his mouth. He waited for his
guest, or, rather, this intruder, to break the silence. And as Cathewe
did not speak at once, there was a tableau during which each was
speculatively busy with the eyes.
"The vicissitudes of time," said Cathewe, "have left no distinguishable
marks upon you."
Breitmann bowed. He remained standing.
And Cathewe had no wish to sit. "I never expected to see you in this
house."
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