“You seek the spectacular,” he accused. “You would be like all of the women. They must have the greatest rôle of all written for them alone, dedicated to them. Ah, do I not know!”
Maria arrived in time to prevent his tirade against whims. She listened in delight as he told of the interview with Casanova.
“After it is all settled, she will be sweet and docile once more,” she promised. “She has not been the same even to me since that night at Mr. Ward’s.”
“You think that is the reason, eh?” Jacobelli stared moodily before him, feeling it was the proper time to enlighten Maria. And yet, how? Were not his suspicions based on air? Only the voice down in the Square was actually proof to himself, and how could he prove it to others, when he had not even traced it?
“For one thing, she is studying too hard, I think,” Maria pursued earnestly. “Four lessons a week and such long ones; are they not too much for the child, signor?”
“Four?” repeated Jacobelli, one bushy eyebrow lifting in amazement. “She tells you she has four lessons a week?”
“Two hours in the morning, two in the afternoon. It is very strenuous, I think.”
“Doubtless so.” He rose and paced the floor with rising agitation. Carlota had come to his studio three times each week, for a two-hour lesson only. Here was proof positive that she was straying somewhere into forbidden paths. “It is absolutely imperative, signora,” he began huskily, when the suspected one came from the inner room, humming to herself from the love tragedy of Mélisande. “Imperative that she make her début next year,” he finished conclusively. “Delays are dangerous, especially when one is overstudying.”
The hidden rebuke passed completely by Carlota, as she said good-bye, sparkling and confident, and Jacobelli pondered, with a sense of responsibility, feeling that he alone knew the real reason for her deception. Possibly Ptolemy or Dmitri might have enlightened him still further. Necessarily Carlota’s visits had become more frequent, since she was to sing the leading rôle in Ames’s operetta. He had won her consent after many arguments and stormy scenes. Six times in one week he had been summoned to Belvoir to consult with Mrs. Nevins about her fête. Four times the black car with its buff and old gold interior had waited his convenience outside the old brownstone row on Fourth Street, and when Carlota arrived for her lesson, she had found only Ptolemy in possession. Yet Ames had argued her into agreeing with him, that this was his great opportunity to present his operetta under the most favorable auspices.
“And you are to sing Fiametta,” he told her positively. “You are the perfect type for her, dear, a slim, aloof little princess, questing for love. Can you get the two costumes, the peasant’s for the fête, and the princess’s when she is in the castle? I suppose you could manage the first out of your own wardrobe, and we will have to rent the other royal raiment.”