She stared at him ineffectually, but Jacobelli was far too engrossed to notice her. He had recognized Carlota through the lenses, and the color rose thickly to his face. The tragic truth burst upon him. His star had been stolen from him by this young unknown composer, his flower of genius was already plucked before his eyes, and flaunted at this miserable society fête as the pupil of another.
Even while he stood with the glasses held close to his eyes, a hand reached over his shoulder, a peremptory hand, accustomed to obedience, and took the glasses from him.
“You will pardon me,” Count Jurka said gently. “It is very urgent that I see closely.”
Impotently Jacobelli glared at him. The Count’s face was absolutely expressionless. Possibly Georges might have guessed that his master was laboring under sudden excitement from the extreme pallor which accentuated his resemblance to a statue. Calm, youthful, and blond, he seemed the embodiment of possibly Endymion or Ganymede, a slender, effete godling, bored, as Dmitri had said, by the ennui of satiety.
Ward’s face as he watched Carlota wore an amused, satirical expression. During the interlude Jacobelli started to speak to him, but was silenced by the “Hush” of those nearest him. Ames’s music held society under a spell, and Mrs. Nevins was conscious of a strange mingling of satisfaction and resentment over the girl Carlota daring to appear with an array of jewels not one woman in the crowd could have equaled.
The climax of the operetta was the stabbing of Fiametta at the feast. Nathalie sang Nedda with an immature insouciance that was in character with the rôle. Peppino was sung by Jolly Allan, a young bachelor with a rich, reckless sort of voice. When he danced with the masked princess at the festa, Nedda stopped him in a jealous fury, demanding why he had neglected her. He answered with the “Quest of Love,” the beautiful waltz song of the princess. Together, as they sing it, they dance, until suddenly Nedda stabs her unknown rival, and as she dies in Peppino’s arms, she is unmasked and the people recognize their princess.
The curtain fell in a tumult of acclamation. Count Jurka was already bowing low over the hand of his hostess. It was with the utmost regret he must take his leave thus early. Only the opportunity of attending her fête could have brought him out from town. He congratulated her on securing the services of—ah, what was the young girl’s name—Miss Roma? He stepped back to make room for Ward.
Jacobelli had broken away from the crowd, and was finding his way to the dressing-rooms beyond the balcony. Ames was already there before him, proud and joyous, forgetting everything but Carlota and her amazing triumph. At the entrance to the green and ivory salon off the balcony, the maestro encountered Nathalie, and poured forth his suspicions to her.
“This young singer, this girl, what do you call her?”
“You mean Miss Roma?” She smiled at him innocently. “Why, she’s a pupil of Mr. Ames, I believe, from the Italian quarter back of where he lives on Washington Square.”