The Cheat (Holman)/Chapter 3
Lucy and Jack Hodge were natural-born organizers of parties, and they had determined that Carmelita's farewell night in Paris would be something that would linger in her memory through many dull months of existence with the husband she did not love.
The party, having started with the Folies Bergere, had now attained midnight and one of the exclusive dance clubs on the Boulevard des Italiens catering especially to Americans' fat pocketbooks and their supposed love of jazz. However, the orchestra had at the moment subdued itself for a brief interval to the cadence of the waltz, and Carmelita was in the arms of Prince Rao-Singh. She loved to dance, and the Prince was an excellent partner. For the moment she forgot her subtle distrust of him and abandoned her emotions to the dreamy music and the seductive rhythm of the dance. Perhaps Rao-Singh was holding her a little too tightly. But she could not see the rather sinister possessive gleam in the Indian's eyes as, for instance, Dudley Drake from his place at Lucy's table could see it. Dudley was almost rude in the intent manner he was regarding them, Carmelita thought as they glided by. He was such a jealous, dear boy. She smiled at him and on an impulse removed the red rose from the dark masses of her hair and tossed it to him as they passed. The Prince shot a quick glance at Dudley. At almost the same instant the music stopped and Carmelita, with a happy sigh, sank into her chair beside the American.
"You should have asked Lucy to dance—where are your manners?" she chided him.
Lucy turned toward them languidly. "Old married ladies do not interest Dudley. Engaged single ladies are quite dif—"
"Oh, please be nice to us, Lucy," smiled Carmelita. Lucy did not like the "us." Dudley pressed more closely to Carmelita.
"May I come to the station to-morrow and see you off for Cherbourg?" asked he in a low voice, avoiding with difficulty an impulse to seize and imprison the smooth little hand that rested carelessly upon the table-cloth almost in front of him.
Carmelita smiled at him favorably over the fresh glass of champagne which had just arrived. "I shall be very angry with you if you don't."
"And can't you and I dash off somewhere—alone—before you leave? To-night—or early in the morning?" following up his advantage.
She patted his shoulder and said nothing.
The deep throaty voice of Prince Rao-Singh broke in upon them from the other side of Carmelita. He was addressing Lucy.
"I would be greatly honored, Mrs. Hodge, if your guests would all come to my house a little later. I have some excellent wines and other curiosities that should interest Americans. Merely a suggestion, of course."
The invitation met with instant favor. Most of the party had heard of the bizarre, richly Oriental character of the Prince's establishment, but nobody had ever been there. They were for the moment a bit satiated with the jazz the dance club offered and were keen for anything that promised a new thrill. As for Lucy, she did not like this almost whispered tête-à-tête between Dudley Drake and Carmelita and the light in their young eyes, and with all her prerogative as hostess she heartily seconded the Prince's invitation.
"We won't go?" Dudley pleaded sotto voce to Carmelita.
"Oh, we shall have to—I'm the guest of honor, you know. I can't run away."
The Prince was out of earshot, searching for Carmelita's wrap.
"I don't like trotting about with this Hindu, Prince or no Prince," Dudley protested petulantly. "He is not our kind."
"This is Paris, you silly boy, not New England," said Carmelita with all the sophistication of her twenty-three years. "I'm not your kind either, you'll be saying next. I'm quite hopelessly Spanish, you know."
"You're different," vehemently.
Prince Rao-Singh was standing blandly behind Carmelita as she rose, holding her cloak ready for her and Dudley perceived that a march had been stolen upon him. At the curbing outside they hailed a flock of taxicabs driven by sleepy but voluble chauffeurs and were whisked several blocks along badly lighted streets to a somber stone private residence in a secluded avenue. There they disembarked chattering with anticipation from the taxis.
A soft-shoed Hindu servant appeared as if by magic as Rao-Singh turned his key in the door and took the party's wraps. And then it was like entering another world—a world of rich brocades and tapestries from the Orient, of silk cushions upon floors yielding and thick with precious rugs, of incense burning with acrid, insidious fumes and a great ugly bronzed Buddha at one end of a long reception hall.
"A taste of real India, is it not?" asked the Prince softly to Carmelita while Hindu servants were regaling the guests with the promised wine.
There was something in the Prince's voice that seemed to imply to Carmelita's private ear that he had arranged this all for her. She was ill at ease.
"Yes, it seems impossible to believe that we are in the heart of Paris," she said as matter-of-fact as possible to reassure herself. He had drawn her aloof from the others.
"You are like a beautiful jewel—who belongs here," he said softly; regarding her intently. She glanced around and noticed uneasily that Lucy had captured Dudley and pinned him into a conversational cul de sac. "It is all very exotic and lovely," she said.
"I have another room which you will like. May I show it to you?" He seemed to be leading her, almost against her will, toward a door of inlaid mahogany. In a moment they were alone in a smaller and stranger, more luxurious edition of the reception hall. They stopped in front of a heavy, flat, intricately carved table. The rest of the party seemed miles away.
"Here is where I dream of romance," Rao-Singh said intensely, moving very close to her. "You are the first woman who has ever entered here."
His long, brown fingers closed upon a small inlaid box which rested upon the table. Burnt into the cover of the box was a cleverly devised tiger's head with a few words of Indian dialect underneath, the personal seal of Rao-Singh, the brand which marked all his possessions. He snapped open the lock and drew from the cushioned interior of the box a dazzling pearl necklace worth a fortune. Evenin the dim light its radiance and worth were apparent. Carmelita could not suppress an exclamation of delight. Not until the Prince had unfastened the catch and made a movement to clasp the jewels around her neck did she awake to the significance of his action. She stepped back, staring at him. The passion in his dark face chilled her.
"Will you not accept it, Carmelita?" he controlled himself. "You and I are different from the others, the Americans, you know. We are of older, warmer-blooded races. We take love where we find it. You are the only woman I have ever desired to make my Princess. I want you—I—"
"You forget that I am already betrothed," she stammered and started uncertainly toward the door. He did not attempt to stop her, but his black, narrowed eyes glowered ominously.
Completely unnerved upon gaining the larger room, it seemed incredible to Carmelita that her friends could be laughing and drinking as if nothing had happened. For the first time since her acquaintance with Rao-Singh she realized the breach between this Oriental and herself. He was a brigand, eager to seize with greedy hands what he desired. She feared him with all her heart.
She could hardly restrain her relief when Dudley Drake, having at last escaped from the capable Lucy, was at her side.
"What's the matter?" he said bluntly. "Are you ill? You look pale. It's the tobacco and this confounded incense, I guess. It's stifling here. Let's run. Will you?"
This time Carmelita gave in to him. She said good-by to her friends, kissing Lucy and thanking her with a promise to see her in the morning, not giving her a chance to question the reason for the hurried departure. Rao-Singh, now thoroughly composed, bowed over her hand and uttered a polite adieu to Dudley.
And then the door closed upon them and Dudley found himself miraculously alone with her. They walked down the steps and started to wake the snoring chauffeur of one of the taxis waiting at the curb. But suddenly Dudley paused. An ancient victoria drawn by a seedy horse and driven by an old, nodding coachman was wheeling by chance slowly up the dark street, returning from an early morning errand.
"Let's hire the carriage," Dudley urged boyishly, pointing to it. "It will take longer."
Carmelita agreed doubtfully. He ran into the street to stop the surprised driver and managed directions to him in very bad French. The victoria was not of modern vintage. The springs in the wide back seat into which they mounted were bad and the upholstery did not smell sweetly. But sitting very close to the soft, yielding form of Carmelita, Dudley knew that a brand-new Rolls-Royce could not have carried him faster or more comfortably to paradise.
And so, in the course of two long blocks, he was venturing an arm around her and then under the spell of a single blinking star and her sweet presence, telling her simply, unevenly that he loved her. And, miracle of miracles, the proud, beautiful Carmelita was unbelievably yielding and snuggling closer to him. And finally, ignoring the broad bent back of the somnolent driver, lifting her red, warm lips to his.
"It is wicked—I know—but I love you, Dudley," she whispered with a happy sigh.
"It isn't wicked—it's wonderful," he corrected.
When they looked up the carriage had stopped precisely in the middle of the great bridge over the Seine, and the driver and, to all appearances, the ancient horse were asleep. So the two lovers laughed and as if by a common impulse slipped out of the carriage and to the parapet of the bridge where they could look down upon the silent, moonlit river. Carmelita clung closer to him. He kissed her again and again.
"This is madness—but oh, why can't it last forever?" she murmured.
But already the cold world of reality was stealing into Dudley's intoxicated dream. Vague resentment clouded his voice as he spoke.
"Why am I not rich like the man you are going to marry?" he expressed the thought that had been troubling him since his first meeting with her.
Carmelita looked up at him questioningly. "You think then that only money makes me happy?" The question was fraught with danger for Dudley. But mingled with his outpouring of love for her was a small undercurrent of pity for himself. The lover is seldom wholly unselfish. He forgets that the cold truth is usually out of place in a declaration of intense passion.
"You have never had to live without: money, dearest. I have. It is only natural that money and luxuries are an important part of your life."
Carmelita's lips were trembling. She was hurt. Why was Dudley introducing this jarring note into her suddenly found happiness?
"I could live without even money—with you," she declared gently, pressing more tightly to him, almost pleading.
"You are so adorably perfect as you are—I wonder."
"My fortune—it is enough for both of us. We need not starve," offered Carmelita innocently. She could not understand the halting of his passionate declaration on what seemed to her a non-essential, something that could easily be settled upon the cold gray morning after. She loved him, but her pride was deeply hurt. She was becoming impatient.
"I could not live upon my wife. My love—and my pride—would die."
"Your pride!" Carmelita's voice and accompanying gesture were expressively Spanish. She choked her gathering tears. She looked around wildly, and before he knew what was happening had sprung into the carriage, shaken the drowsing driver fiercely into consciousness, hurled some breathless Spanish-French into his ears, and set the creaking victoria into movement. The astonished and chagrined Dudley was left watching the swaying vehicle and the expressive back of Carmelita disappeared into the shadows until nothing was left of them but the monotonous clop-clop of the trotting horse.