Everyone who reads the papers is familiar with the details of the Haymarket Massacre. Few people, however, are aware that a far more dastardly outrage had been planned to intimidate London a few days later. Through the agency of a courageous woman this affair too was unmasked in its turn, but for commercial and other reasons it was kept from the general public.
The scheme was to blow up the Opera House at Covent Garden on the first night of the season. Had the facts got abroad, the audience would probably have been somewhat sparse on that occasion; but the facts did not get abroad, and the house was crowded in every part; for the famous prima donna Louise Vesea (since retired) was singing “Marguerite,” in “Faust,” and enthusiasm about her was such that though the popular tenor had unaccountably thrown up his engagement, the price of stalls rose to thirty-three shillings. The police were sure of themselves, and the evening passed off with nothing more explosive than applause. Nevertheless, that night, after the curtain had fallen and Louise Vesea had gathered up all the wreaths and other tributes of admiration which had been showered upon her, there happened the singular incident which it is our purpose to record.
Vesea, wrapped in rich furs—it was midnight, and our usual wintry May—was just leaving the stage door for her carriage, when a gentleman respectfully accosted her. He was an English detective on special service, and Vesea appeared to know him.
“It will be desirable for you to run no risks, Madame,” he said. “So far as we know all the principals have left the country in alarm, but there are always others.”
Vesea smiled. She was then over thirty, in the full flower of her fame and beauty. Tall, dark, calm, mysterious, she had the firm yet gentle look of one who keeps a kind heart under the regal manner induced by universal adoration.
“What have I to fear?” she said.
“Vengeance,” the detective answered simply. “I have arranged to have you shadowed, in case——”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” she said. “The idea is intolerable to me. I am not afraid.”
The detective argued, but in vain.
“It shall be as you wish, Madame,” he said, ultimately.