And with a parting “au revoir, baron,” he jumped into a fiacre, and in a loud, cheery tone of voice, bade the coachman drive home to the Hotel Kensington. A couple of minutes later, Frederick, who was greatly put out at thus having his alias and his residence made known to Rose, hailed a passing cab, and a quarter of an hour afterward arrived at her apartments in the Rue de Constantinople. They consisted of four rooms, the tawdry ornaments, greasy furniture, vulgar attempts at display and false elegance of which denoted that their tenant had sunk to the level of a third-rate cocotte.
Before Frederick left Rose that night he succeeded in exacting a promise from her that as long as he maintained her in luxury and gave her all the money she wanted, she would make no attempt to reveal his identity or to injure him in any way. He handed her a couple of thousand-franc bank-notes on his departure, and, promising to call on the following afternoon, strolled back to his hotel.
“She knows too much! She is dangerous! This will never do!” he muttered to himself, as he walked along under the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli.
He knew full well that as he was able to provide her with money, he would not have much to fear from her. She was far too careful of her own interests to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs by forcing him to take to flight. But, unfortunately, he was ever of a spendthrift disposition. His tastes, pleasures, and mode of life were extravagant; gold escaped like water through his fingers, and he realized that as soon as the last penny of the money which he had abstracted from the murdered widow's apartments at Baroda had been spent he would find himself powerless to silence Rose, whose revelations would inevitably result in a demand for his extradition on the part of the Anglo-Indian Government.
Several days went by. He had installed Rose in a very handsomely furnished apartment on the Avenue de l'Imperatrice, and had presented her with a carriage and pair, besides providing her with jewels and handsome dresses. It became noised abroad among the demi-monde that she had become the mistress of a wealthy Austrian named Baron Wolff, and both Frederick and Rose were careful to avoid any allusion to the real relationship which existed between them.
Rose found that by means of a few judicious taunts and threats she was able to get anything she wanted out of him. Of love between this curiously assorted couple there was none, and with each additional demand for money on her part the hatred and loathing with which he regarded her increased.
One evening, about a month after his meeting with Rose at the Jardin Mabille, Frederick entered her drawing-room half an hour before dinner, carrying in his hand a large bouquet of gardenias and white lilac. It was her birthday, and after having duly congratulated her he handed her a blue velvet box, which she opened with a cry of delight. It contained a bracelet composed of superb sapphires which a few months previously had figured on the wrist of the murdered widow at Baroda. Kissing her hand with old-fashioned courtesy, Frederick clasped the jewel round Rose's shapely arm, and then led her before one of the huge mirrors which gleamed here and there between the plush hangings of the luxuriously appointed room. They were indeed a handsome couple as they stood there gazing at their reflections in the glass. Rose was now dressed in perfect taste, and her pale-blue satin dinner dress set off her beauty to perfection. Suddenly she looked up at him with a mocking smile, and exclaimed, with a sneer:
“What a charming pair we are to be sure! No wonder we love each other so tenderly.”
They remained a long time at table that night, sipping their wine, and for a wonder chatting peacefully and pleasantly. Suddenly Rose jumped up and exclaimed:
“By the by, Frederick, I must show you a letter which I received to-day. There is a kind of East Indian nabob who is staying here at the Grand Hotel. He has seen me at the opera, and writes to make me the most dazzling proposals,” added she, cynically.