It appeared that up to the last moment the theatre-management had expected her and had allowed the audience to assemble. They had delayed matters for half an hour while they sent out messengers to search for her. When the crowd grew restless, they had commenced the performance with an under-study. But the people would have none of her; they rose up in their places stamping and threatening, shouting for La Fiesole. The curtain had been rung down and Monsieur Georges had come forward, weeping and wringing his hands, saying that La Fiesole had been kidnaped by an admirer that morning. Pandemonium broke loose. The theatre for a time was in danger of being wrecked; but the police were summoned and got the audience out, and the money refunded.
The journalist’s story followed of the unknown Englishman who, a few nights before, had stood up in his box applauding when everyone else had grown silent; and how the same Englishman, one night previously, had created a scene between himself and La Fiesole at a café in the Champs Elysées—a scene which had terminated by them going away together.
“Make you out quite a desperate character, don’t they, old darling?” she drawled, looking up into my eyes, laughing.
I did my best to share her levity, but I was secretly annoyed at so much publicity. Taking the paper from her, I patted her on the shoulder. “Come, drink up your coffee, little woman; it’s getting cold. Why waste time over all this nonsense? You’re out of it. It’s all ended.”
“But it isn’t. Paris won’t let it be ended. They’re making more row about me than they did about La Gioconda. They’ve offered a reward of five thousand francs for my recovery.”
“And if they did find us, they couldn’t do anything. Discovery won’t be easy.”
“Won’t it? We were seen yesterday going together towards St. Cloud; they’ve got the number of my car and particulars of my dress from Marie.”
“But didn’t you warn Marie?”
“Silly fellow, how should I? Didn’t know myself what I was going to do when we started—at least I didn’t know positively.”
“Humph!”