The Perils of Pauline Part 17

From the scintillant, filmy mist of women around the piano Lucille emerged. She came swiftly to Harry's side.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"What is? Tell me." he replied. "What did you say to her?"

"I didn't see her, Harry. She sent word that she was not at home."

"You don't mean--not after you started upstairs."

"Yes--and she hasn't spoken to me all evening."

"And she left me waiting at home for half an hour. It's outrageous."

Harry strode across the floor just as the music ceased, and Baskinelli arose, bowing to the applause of his feminine admirers.

"May I ask the honor to show to you Madame Courtelyou's portrait of myself? It is called 'The Glorification of Imbecility,'" he said as he proffered his arm to Pauline.

He was a small man, with sharp features shadowed by a ma.s.s of flowing, curling hair--the kind of hair that has come to be called "musical"

by the irreverent. The sweep of an abnormal brow gave emphasis to the sudden jut of deep eye sockets, and a dull, sallow skin gave emphasis to the subtle sinister light, of the eyes themselves.

Pauline accepted the proffered arm of the artist, but daintily, laughingly, she turned him back to the piano.

"You haven't yet escaped, Signor Baskinelli," she said. "We have not yet heard 'Tivoli,' you know."

"Tivoli," he cried, with hands upraised in mock disdain. "Why, I wrote the thing myself. Am I to violate even my own masterpieces?"

There was a twitter of mocking protest from the women. Baskinelli began to play again.

"Pauline, may I speak to you--just a moment?" Harry's vexed voice reached her ear as she stood beside the piano. She turned slowly and looked into his bewildered, angry eyes.

"A little later--possibly," she answered, and instantly turned back to Baskinelli.

From her no mask of music, no glamour of others' admiration could hide the predatory obsequiousness of Baskinelli. She was not in the least interested in Baskinelli. She had loathed him from the moment when she had looked down on his little oily curls. But if Baskinelli had been Beelzebub he would have enjoyed the favor of Pauline that evening--at least, after Harry had arrived.

The glowing piquant beauty of Pauline enthralled Baskinelli. He had never before seen a woman like her--innocent but astute, daring but demure, brilliant but opalescent. When at last they strolled away together into the conservatory his drawing room obeisances became direct declarations of love.

Pauline began to be frightened.

She fluttered to the door of the conservatory. But there she paused.

Voices sounded from the end of a little rose-rimmed alley. They were the voices of Harry and Lucille.

Baskinelli was at her side again.

"If I have said anything--done anything to offend," he said, with affected contrition, "you will let me make my lowliest apologies, won't you?"

Pauline hardly heard him. She was intently listening to the low pitched voices.

"I--I think I will run back to the others," she cried suddenly.

Baskinelli was left alone.

"I congratulate you, Signor, on the success of the evening," said a voice at his shoulder. "There are few among the famous who can conquer drawing rooms as well as auditoriums."

The musician turned to face the ingratiating smile of Raymond Owen.

"I thank you--I thank you, sir. But I do not believe you. My 'conquest' has turned to catastrophe. I have lost everything."

"You mean that you are dissatisfied with the applause?" asked Owen.

"No! No! Applause is nothing from the many. There is always one in his audience to whom he plays from his soul."

"And that one--tonight?"

"The lovely Miss--what, now, is her name--Marvin. She bewitches me --and she scorns me."

"Signor Baskinelli, there are other places than drawing rooms, or even conservatories, in which to capture those who captivate."

"I--do I quite grasp your meaning, Mistaire Owen?" He tried to disguise the suspicion under an accentuated accent.

"I think so, Monsieur Picquot."

At the name Baskinelli turned livid. He made a movement as if he would lunge at the throat of Owen, but his fury withered under the gla.s.sy smile.

"So--we met in Paris?"

"Once upon a time--a little incident in the Rue St. Jeanne. A young woman was concerned in that incident--and was not heard of afterward."

"And you are trying to blackmail me for the death of Marie Disart!

Ha! That is a jest," cried Baskinelli.

"I am trying to do nothing of the kind. I simply reminded you of the little affair. I know as well as you that it was all beautifully cleared up, and a man is still in prison for it. I know you are as safe here as that man is in jail, Signor Baskinelli."

"What are you talking about, then?"

"The little woman that so charmed you here. I remarked merely that those who are captivated can capture."

"Not in this country--not among the Puritans. One must be good-- and unhappy."

"You haven't forgotten your little friends, Mario, and Di Palma and Vitrio? They are all respected residents of New York. We know, where they might be found."

"At Cagliacci's?"

"Precisely. Dining upon the best of spaghetti and the richest of wines, and paying for it at the point of a stiletto."

"But--ha! You are talking nonsense. We could not find them; they could not find us."

"We might telephone and try," suggested Owen. "Cagliacci, you know, is now up-to-date. He has a telephone. He considers it a sign of respectability."

"And then what do you propose?"