The Intriguers

“You have surpassed yourself to-night, Signor. There are many waiting to pay you compliments. But will you first come and have a brief chat with me?”

Was there anything he could more ardently desire? To gaze for a few moments into those beautiful eyes, to listen to those soft, kind tones – were not a few moments spent like this worth much more than all the applause he had received?

She led him to a small divan in the spacious salon, that was fortunately not occupied. She sat at one end, he at the other; but they were not very distant.

He was very agitated. His close proximity to this beautiful young woman, the product of centuries of high breeding, the delight of her presence, the perfume that stole to him from her abundant hair, the hundred and one subtle allurements that a daughter of the classes possessed for a son of the people, intoxicated him. She was indeed the woman of his dreams, a star set so high in the firmament that he could only gaze respectfully at its light.

She brought him to earth with the simple question: “You must be very tired after your fatigues of the day and night; it is some time past twelve now. How do you propose to return to your hotel? I suppose you have your carriage waiting to take you back?”

She had put the question in her subtle, woman’s way. She knew it was a fad of Corsini’s that he would never ride or drive where he could walk. When he was rallied upon it by his few intimate friends, he always gave the same explanation that he proffered now.

“It is an eccentricity of mine, Princess, that I always walk wherever I can. Shall I tell you why?”

Nada looked at him kindly. “Yes, tell me why. I cannot tell you whether it is an eccentricity until I know the reason. Personally, I am a very lazy person, and never walk when I can ride.”

Corsini leaned towards her. He could inhale the fragrance of her hair, the stronger perfume that came from the roses she wore in her corsage.

“Princess, may I reveal to you some of my inmost cherished aspirations?” His eyes were glowing, he spoke with unusual vehemence.

“I should be honoured to receive your confidences,” replied the Princess softly.

“Ah, then, since you are so indulgent, I will tell you. My career up to a few months ago was an obscure one. Music is in my blood, as it is in yours. Am I not right?”

“Yes,” replied the Princess, in an even softer voice than before. “Music is in my blood, too. Everything fades into insignificance beside those lovely rapturous sounds, such as you and a few other great artists can evoke and render in your various media: through the voice, the violin, the piano – perhaps the weakest, the least convincing of all.”

She was very lovely, very alluring, thought Corsini. She had considerable mentality, even great spirituality. Alone with his violin and her, he could so charm her that perchance she might cast off her high estate, the estate of the Princess, and venture forth with him into the world of exquisite music and unknown dreams. But the time had not come for that. She had only extended a kind and gentle friendship. He could not, at the moment, ask for more. It would be presumption on his part.

“I trust I shall not weary you,” he said, with a smile of apology. “As a violinist, I have met with some success; as the Director of the Imperial Opera, I am not quite a failure. But these successes, for what they are worth, do not put limits on my ambition. I want to be something greater than either – the successful composer.”

The Princess sighed. “Ah, that is my ambition, too. I have tried every instrument, and failed. I have composed heaps of things, but there is no originality in them. I play Chopin and try to imitate him, Wagner with the same result. I have an artistic instinct, Signor Corsini, but no creative ability. I must be a listener all my life, envying the people who render what I would give all my fortune to express.”

Corsini thought of his interview with Salmoros, when that sedate and experienced financier had expressed the inmost desires of his soul, that he would give a hundred thousand pounds out of his princely fortune to acquire half of the Italian’s executive art.

Corsini looked at her, his artist soul beaming in his expressive eyes.

“It is one of the tragedies of life, Princess. You, like my good friend Salmoros, desire to be an executant, and your fingers refuse to obey the impulses of your soul. You want to be a composer, and you cannot express your ideas. You do not create, you only imitate.”

“Alas, yes,” answered the Princess mournfully.

Corsini half rose from his seat in his agitation. “With me, Princess, it is different. The executive part comes easily to me; I do not worry about that; it is, of course, a gift. But, as I told you, I long to be a composer. That is the reason why I always walk whenever the distance is not too long.”

“Ah, yes, we have wandered far from the original subject,” answered the Princess, realising that Corsini had got upon the great theme of self, and was no longer keen to listen to the recital of her small aspirations.

“Playing in these gilded saloons, shut up in my office at the Opera, my imaginative past is dull and dead. When I walk through the silent streets watching the tide of life as it flows by, the nobleman rolling by in his carriage, the beggar cringing for alms, great thoughts come to me. Overhead at night, the stars, full of mystery and wonder, this petty world beneath! Then, Princess, my imagination awakes. I feel in me some of that divine fire which must have informed the great Beethoven when he composed ‘The Moonlight Sonata,’ some of that inspiration which moved Chopin, Wagner, and the other great masters.”

He waved his arms with a dramatic gesture. “That is why I walk rather than ride. Speaking as a composer, when I am confined in a close space, I am dead artistically. When I walk and look round on life, I find inspiration.”

He was very glowing, very impassioned. Nada felt her pulses thrill as she listened to him. But perhaps, because she was not the full and complete artist that Corsini was, she always leaned to the practical side.

“Oh, please do not think I am not capable of understanding you,” she said. “If I were the artist you are, I should break away from the narrow confines of this Palace and seek inspiration, like you, from the moon and stars, even in the silent streets.”

She paused a moment, and then added, with her full knowledge of what was lying in wait for him, “But all the same, Signor, in spite of the inspiration you may derive, I wish you would not walk home to-night. Give the moon, the stars, the silent streets the go-by for once. Wait for your inspiration till to-morrow.”

He was flattered by that direct appeal to him from such a beautiful girl, but of course, he had no idea of the reason that had prompted it.

“But, Princess, why put an embargo on this exquisite night? As I walk along, great ideas will come to me. I may be able to think of something worthy of Chopin, Schumann, even of the great Wagner himself.”

She leaned forward to him a little from her side of the divan, and her flower-like face was very close to his. He could catch the subtle perfume of her hair, the scent of the roses at her breast.

“It is just a little whim of mine, Signor Corsini. You work very hard, you are devoured by your artistic ambitions which nourish the soul, but consume the body to ashes. Do not incur unnecessary fatigue. You have your carriage waiting?”

“No, Princess, I have never any carriage waiting. I nearly always walk to my hotel – the longer the distance, the better, because I have a longer time for inspiration.”

“I know, I know,” answered Nada quietly. “I fully appreciate all this, but one may sometimes overdo it. I do not think you are looking very well to-night, Signor. You have put too great a strain upon yourself lately. You say you have no carriage waiting. Permit me to supply you with one. The courtyard is choked up with vehicles. You have only to say the word and my maid will bring you one to the side door of the Palace. You can get in there and be driven home at once, without any tedious delay.”

A delightful thought crossed his brain. Was it possible that the Princess had appreciated his respectful homage, his silent devotion? Or was this solicitude for his welfare merely the expression of a womanly compassion for the man outside her world, but claiming the common kinship of art?

His voice broke as he declined her offer. “Ten thousand thanks, but I would not put you to such trouble. You have so many guests to see to. I have already taken up too much of your time. I will walk home as usual and seek my inspiration under the stars.”

Her troubled gaze sought his. If he would only prove amenable, she could still save him – at any rate for a time – from her ruthless brother, with the aid of her faithful maid, Katerina, out of the reach of those scoundrels who were waiting to convey him – she hoped into the arms of General Beilski’s police.

But Corsini was not to be saved to-night, although two women had done their best for him. He took the hand that the Princess offered him.

“You have been so very kind. I shall always cherish you in a warm corner of my heart, for were you not one of my earliest friends? At that time, I had not many friends, Heaven knows.”

“I shall always be your friend, Signor Corsini. I only wish you would allow me to order the carriage to take you home.” The concluding words almost sounded like an entreaty.

But Corsini would pay no attention. He was resolved on walking home to seek inspiration from the clear skies and the silent streets.

At the top of the great staircase the Prince was standing, to all appearances cordiality itself. But, from a far corner of the music-salon, he had been watching with angry eyes the conversation between his sister and Corsini.

But he could afford to be indifferent; he could afford to greet the young Italian with a smile. He had laid his plans cunningly.

Zouroff accompanied him to the door, guarded by a big hall-porter. In a corner of the hall lounged a small dapper man, Peter, his valet, the lover of Katerina.

“Good-night, Signor. Have you no carriage waiting? Ah, no, I understand it is a habit of yours to walk. Good! Exercise is a fine tonic. My secretary will send you a cheque to-morrow for your services. Again, good-night!”

The door closed on the retreating Corsini. Zouroff turned swiftly to the small, dapper man, and whispered in his ear.

“After him, Peter. Come back and tell me that they have done their work.”

The hall-porter opened the door at a sign from his imperious master, and the valet went out with a slow, stealthy tread.

He followed in the wake of Corsini, who marched along gaily, his violin-case swinging from his hand, his thoughts full of the Princess Nada, who had been so sweet to him, so gracious.

He hummed one of the gayest of the many gay airs from “Il Barbiere” as he walked along. It was one of his favourite operas, one in which La Belle Quéro was inimitable.

He was in a very happy frame of mind to-night as he walked through the silent streets. He even thought tenderly of La Belle Quéro, and went to the length of forgiving her for what he had once considered her groundless jealousy of the Princess.