“I do not want any one to know they are here in America, out of the Tittani vaults. Nobody is aware of it as yet excepting yourself and the Marchese. He helped me with the customs when we came in, he and the delightful Palmieri. But even to Palmieri they were merely jewels. He did not know their histories.”
Carlota watched her anxiously, a quick reaction of tenderness and solicitude for Maria sweeping over her, and making her forgetful of her own trouble.
“You’re worried, dear. Why?” she asked.
“Why?” Maria laughed. “Because I am doubtless a superstitious old fool. Paoli always said there was a curse about the rubies and pearls, rubies for the blood of the people, pearls for the tears they shed. I wish we had not brought them.”
CHAPTER IX
The following morning at nine-thirty, Signor Jacobelli stood bowing on the threshold of Casanova’s small sanctum in the Opera building. Armed with Ogden Ward’s influence and his own reputation, his welcome was assured. Casanova, lean and dark, beamed on his visitor like some comradely Mephisto luxuriating in dolce far niente.
“Come in, my friend,” he called. “You release me from the duty of perusing the new opera of the great, unknown composer who insists that I shall discover him. Do you bring me a new sensation?”
But Jacobelli was mysterious and secretive. For over an hour he sat in the famous, three-cornered office, dilating upon the beauty and genius of Paoli’s granddaughter until he knew he held the interest of the impresario. Suddenly Alphonse, the slender, solicitous secretary, peered around the door.
“Mrs. Carrington Nevins,” he whispered tentatively. “She is alone.”
“You will wait,” Casanova urged, as he nodded assent. “She is very wealthy, one of our best subscribers. She wishes to secure some good singers for her Italian fête. One cannot refuse, and then she has a daughter whom she thinks is a Galli-Curci handicapped by position and money.”