"It will be an honour," he said softly. "It is a great part, madame."
"It needs not only a singer, but an actress," put in Lady Rustonbury.
"That is true," Bréon agreed. "I remember when I was a young man in Italy, going to a little out-of-the-way theatre in Milan. My seat cost me only a couple of lira, but I heard as good singing that night as I have heard in the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. Quite a young girl sang 'Tosca'; she sang it like an angel. Never shall I forget her voice in 'Vissi D'Arte,' the clearness of it, the purity. But the dramatic force, that was lacking."
Nazorkoff nodded.
"That comes later," she said quietly.
"True. This young girl - Bianca Capelli her name was - I interested myself in her career. Through me she had the chance of big engagements, but she was foolish - regrettably foolish."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"How was she foolish?"
It was Lady Rustonbury's twenty-four-year-old daughter, Blanche Amery, who spoke - a slender girl with wide blue eyes.
The Frenchrnan turned to her at once politely.
"Alas! Mademoiselle, she had embroiled herself with some low fellow, a ruffian, a member of the Camorra. He got into trouble with the police, was condemned to death; she came to me begging me to do something to save her lover."
Blanche Amery was staring at him.
"And did you?" she asked breathlessly.
"Me, mademoiselle, what could I do? A stranger in the country."
"You might have had influence?" suggested Nazorkoff in her low, vibrant voice.
"If I had, I doubt whether I should have exerted it. The man was not worth it. I did what I could for the girl."
He smiled a little, and his smile suddenly struck the English girl as having something peculiarly disagreeable about it. She felt that, at that moment, his words fell far short of representing his thoughts.
"You did what you could," said Nazorkoff. "That was kind of you, and she was grateful, eh?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
"The man was executed," he said, "and the girl entered a convert. Eh, voilà! The world has lost a singer."
Nazorkoff gave a low laugh.
"We Russians are more fickle," she said lightly.
Blanche Amery happened to be watching Cowan just as the singer spoke, and she saw his quick look of astonishment, arid his lips that half opened and then shut tight in obedience to some warning glance from Paula.
The butler appeared in the doorway.
"Dinner," said Lady Rustonbury, rising. "You poor things, I am so sorry for you It must be dreadful always to have to starve yourself before singing. But there will be a very good supper afterwards."
"We shall look forward to it," said Paula Nazorkoff. She laughed softly. "Afterwards!"
III
Inside the theatre, the first act of Tosca had just drawn to a close. The audience stirred, spoke to each other. The royalties, charming and gracious, sat in the three velvet chairs in the front row. Everyone was whispering and murmuring to each other; there was a general feeling that in the first act Nazorkoff had hardly lived up to her great reputation. Most of the audience did not realize that in this the singer showed her art; in the first act she was saving her voice and herself. She made of La Tosca a light, frivolous figure, toying with love, coquettishly jealous and exacting. Bréon, though the glory of his voice was past its prime, still struck a magnificent figure as the cynical Scarpia. There was no hint of the decrepit roué in his conception of the part. He made of Scarpia a handsome, almost benign figure, with just a hint of the subtle malevolence that underlay the outward seeming. In the last passage, with the organ and the procession, when Scarpia stands lost in thought, gloating over his plan to secure Tosca, Bréon had displayed a wonderful art. Now the curtain rose upon the second act, the scene in Scarpia's apartments.
This time, when Tosca entered, the art of Nazorkoff at once became apparent. Here was a woman in deadly terror playing her part with the assurance of a fine actress. Her easy greeting of Scarpia, her nonchalance, her smiling replies to him! In this scene, Paula Nazorkoff acted with her eyes; she carded herself with deadly quietness, with an impassive, smiling face. Only her eyes that kept darting glances at Scarpia betrayed her true feelings. And so the story went from the torture scene, the breaking down of Tosca's composure, and her utter abandonment when she fell at Scarpia's feet imploring him vainly for mercy. Old Lord Leconmere, a connoisseur of music, moved appreciatively, and a foreign ambassador sitting next to him murmured:
"She surpasses herself, Nazorkoff, tonight. There is no other woman on the stage who can let herself go as she does."
Leconmere nodded.
And now Scarpia has named his price, and Tosca, horrified, flies from him to the window. Then comes the beat of drums from afar, and Tosca flings herself wearily down on the sofa. Scarpia, standing over her, recites how his people are raising up the gallows - and then silence, and again the far-off beat of drums. Nazorkoff lay prone on the sofa, her head hanging downwards almost touching the floor, masked by her hair. Then, in exquisite contrast to the passion and stress of the last twenty minutes, her voice rang out, high and clear, the voice, as she had told Cowan, of a choir boy or an angel.
"Vissi d'arte, vissi d'arte, no feci mai male ad anima riva.
Con man furtiva quante miserie conobbi, aiutai. "
It was the voice of a wondering, puzzled child. Then she is once more kneeling and imploring, till the instant when Spoletta enters. Tosca, exhausted, gives in, and Scarpia utters his fateful words of double-edged meaning. Spoletta departs once more. Then comes the dramatic moment when Tosca, raising a glass of wine in her trembling hand, catches sight of the knife on the table and slips it behind her.
Bréon rose up, handsome, saturnine, inflamed with passion. "Tosca, finalmente mia!" The lightning stab with the knife, and Tosca's hiss of vengeance:
"Questo e il baccio di Tosca!" ("It is thus that Tosca kisses.")
Never had Nazorkoff shown such an appreciation of Tosca's act of vengeance. That last fierce whispered "Muori dannato," and then in a strange, quiet voice that filled the theatre:
"Or gli perdono!'' ("Now I forgive him!")
The soft death tune began as Tosca set about her ceremonial, placing the candles each side of his head, the crucifix on his breast, her last pause in the doorway looking back, the roll of distant drums, and the curtain fell.
This time real enthusiasm broke out in the audience, but it was short-lived. Someone hurried out from behind the wings and spoke to Lord Rustonbury. He rose, and after a minute or two's consultation, turned and beckoned to Donald Calthorp, who was an eminent physician. Almost immediately the truth spread through the audience. Something had happened, an accident, someone was badly hurt. One of the singers appeared before the curtain and explained that M, Bréon had unfortunately met with an accident - the opera could not proceed. Again the rumour went round, Bréon had been stabbed, Nazorkoff had lost her head, had lived in her part so completely that she had actually stabbed the man who was acting with her. Lord Leconmere, talking to his ambassador friend, felt a touch on his and turned to look into Blanche Amery's eyes.
"It was not an accident," the girl was saying. "I am sure it was not an accident. Didn't you hear, just before dinner that story he was telling about the gift in Italy? That was Paula Nazorkoff. Just after, she said something at being Russian, and I saw Mr. Cowan look amazed. She may have taken a Russian name, but he knows well enough that she is Italian."
"My dear Blanche," said Lord Leconmere.
"I tell you I am sure of it. She had a picture paper in hr bedroom opened at the page showing M. Bréon in his English country home. She knew before she came down here. I believe she gave something to that poor little Italian man to make him ill."
"But why?" cried Lord Leconmere. "Why?"
"Don't you see? It's the story of Tosca all over again. He wanted her in Italy, but she was faithful to her over, and s
he went to him to try to get him to save her lover, and he pretended he would. Instead he let him die. And now at last her revenge has come. Didn't you hear the way she hissed "I am Tosca"?And I saw Bréon's face when she said it, he knew then - he recognized her!"
In her dressing-room, Paula Nazorkoff sat motionless, a white ermine cloak held round her. There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," said the prima donna.
Elise entered. She was sobbing.
"Madame, madame, he is dead! And - "
"Yes?"
"Madame, how can I tell you? There are two gentlemen of the police there; they want to speak to you."
Paula Nazorkoff rose to her full height.
"I will go to them," she said quietly.
She untwisted a collar of pearls from her neck and put them into the French girl's hands.
"Those are for you, Elise, you have been a good girl. I shall not need them now where I am going. You understand, Elise? I shall not sing 'Tosca' again."
She stood a moment by the door, her eyes sweeping over the dressing-room, as though she looked back over the past thirty years of her career.
Then softly between her teeth, she murmured the last line of another opera:
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