“I have collected pearls amongst other things.”
“Then perhaps you noticed the cap our sweet protégée wore to-night, the Juliette mode, a network of pearls? That is a bit of very delicate craftsmanship, sixteenth-century work. Margherita Paoli’s collection was thought marvelous in her day. Every piece has its own history. She left it intact for Carlota.”
“Where is it?” The unwinking, light gray eyes of the financier watched every shade of expression on his guest’s face.
“I was not in the confidence of the Contessa,” responded the Marchese suavely, almost regretfully, as he touched the ash from his cigarette tip and watched it fall on the curled leaf of gold repoussé.
Carlota leaned her head back on the suède cushion in Jacobelli’s car, gazing out at the Avenue’s lights as they flashed by. It had been raining, and they glowed through the wet glass in prismatic hues like in a spectrum. Maria’s arm was close about her, but she was silent, inwardly frightened and disturbed at the dénouement to the dinner. But Jacobelli was elated and highly amused. He occupied the uptown seat himself, and sat with a hand resting on each knee, complacent and benignant.
“Cara mia, I salute!” he exclaimed happily. “You are an actress as well as a singer. You could not possibly have entertained him better or interested him more piquantly.”
“I did not try to interest him,” Carlota replied, wearily. “I hate him and the look in his eyes.”
She drew in her breath sharply with a tremor of dread, and returned the quick, understanding pressure of Maria’s hand. But the maestro merely smiled at them both, smiled until his round, plump face seemed like a caricature of himself sketched in upturned half-moons of mirth.
“That is quite all right,” he assured her. “You should be proud that so great a man is attracted by your genius. So soon as you have signed your first contract, my dear, and made your début, then you may refuse to see him, if you like, if not before. What is the look in his eyes to you? Thousands will gaze at you so. You must learn to accept homage gracefully. Ward is a stepping-stone to success. To-morrow I shall see Casanova for you as he ordered.”
Carlota closed her eyes as the car drew up under the heavy porte-cochère at the Saint Germain apartments. Its rim of electric lights was the sole illumination on the dark side street at that hour.