The outer bell rang lightly.
“Don’t tell her about it now,” warned Carlota. “It must be done very diplomatically or she will suspect us. Telephone to her later that you have the seats and cannot take no for an answer.”
After he had gone Maria took her accustomed siesta. Veracci had sought to interest her by talking of the customs matter coming up again, but she waved him from her laughingly.
“I will not talk of anything disagreeable with you. It is quite all right, merely a little formality to go through. I assured them we were not remaining here permanently and the collection belongs in Italy. Mr. Ward had insured me every courtesy there.”
The Marchese had elevated his expressive eyebrows, but did not press the point. After his departure Carlota sat by the window, embroidering a headband in rose and gold thread. How was she to open the jewel chest without Maria’s knowledge. And she must have them for the princess’s court costume. There was one gown of gold tissue over old-rose metal cloth, an exquisite mediæval robe that lay like a web of sunlight in one of the chests. The court train was of crimson velvet embroidered in seed pearls, and with it she longed to wear the full set of the Zoroaster rubies. Since she was to be his princess before these people, she must bear herself royally for his sake.
She sighed, and laid aside her work to look down at the quiet street. Below strolled a figure she recognized, Steccho, a belated sentinel. He had lingered in the cigar-shop while the Marchese chatted to his friend, the worker in enamels. Halfway through the night he had sat with him and Dmitri in a basement coffee-house on East Twenty-Seventh Street, listening to the new gospel of optimism which Dmitri loved to spread, he who could see good in all things and believed that service is the stabilizer of humanity’s caprice. Yet, while Steccho had listened and smoked, he had watched the face of every newcomer eagerly, hoping to find one fresh from Rigl. He was growing tired of playing watchdog for Jurka.
Carlota drew the curtains together as she encountered his steady, uplifted gaze. Why did this boy keep guard over her? she wondered, and slowly smiled. He did not seem a menace. There had been a look of admiration in his eyes the day he had returned her gloves to her. Jacobelli had told her she must prepare to accept homage from all, and Ames had said a friend of Dmitri’s had told him where she lived. She looked out after him as he passed leisurely down the street. In all the old-time romances that she loved, there was the “shepherd in the distance,” the page who caroled unseen to Kate the queen, the gondolier who dared to lift his heart to the rose that touched a closed lattice. She wondered who he could be.
Maria sighed and stirred. The telephone rang on the little painted stand, and Carlota answered it. It was the Marchese, calling the signora. She laughed softly as he spoke to her, the color rising softly in her cheeks.
“Cara mia, it is delightful of him,” she exclaimed, as she hung up the receiver. “He is the most thoughtful, charming knight errant. Ah, if you could have seen him thirty years ago! The handsomest man in all Italy. He has asked us to dine to-morrow with him and go to see ‘The Jewels of the Madonna.’ It will do you good. Jacobelli tells me you will have it in your repertoire next year.”
A curious light came in Carlota’s dark eyes, a tender, half-penitent light. “The Jewels of the Madonna,” and she was planning how to secure the old jewels lying hidden away in the Florentine chest by the fireplace. Even though they were her own, she felt a secret, guilty thrill over deceiving those who loved her. Surely the “Quest of Love” led one far astray and alone.