Hearts and Masks | Page 4

come on. If I tried a trick out of turn, I might foozle and lose prestige. And besides, I depend so much upon the professor and his introductory notes: 'Ladies and gents, permit me to introduce the world-renowned Signor Fantoccini, whose marvelous tricks have long puzzled all the crowned heads of Europe--'"
"Fantoccini,"--musingly. "That's Italian for puppet show."
"I know it, but the dime-museum visitors do not. It makes a fine impression."
She laughed and slid the dime back to her uncle.
"I'm afraid you are an impostor," she said.
"I'm afraid so, too," I confessed, laughing.
Then the comedy came to an end by the appearance of our separate orders. I threw aside the cards and proceeded to attack my dinner, for I was hungry. From time to time I caught vague fragments of conversation between the girl and her uncle.
"It's a fool idea," mumbled the old gentleman; "you will get into some trouble or other."
"That doesn't matter. It will be like a vacation,--a flash of old Rome, where I wish I were at this very moment. I am determined."
"This is what comes of reading romantic novels,"--with a kind of grumble.
"I admit there never was a particle of romance on your side of the family," the girl retorted.
"Happily. There is peace in the house where I live."
"Do not argue with me."
"I am not arguing with you. I should only be wasting my time. I am simply warning you that you are about to commit a folly."
"I have made up my mind."
"Ah! In that case I have hopes," he returned. "When a woman makes up her mind to do one thing, she generally does another. Why can't you put aside this fool idea and go to the opera with me?"
"I have seen Carmen in Paris, Rome, London and New York," she replied.
(Evidently a traveled young person.)
"Carmen is your favorite opera, besides."
"Not to-night,"--whimsically.
"Go, then; but please recollect that if anything serious comes of your folly, I did my best to prevent it. It's a scatter-brained idea, and no good will come of it, mark me."
"I can take care of myself,"--truculently.
"So I have often been forced to observe,"--dryly.
(I wondered what it was all about.)
"But, uncle dear, I am becoming so dreadfully bored!"
"That sounds final," sighed the old man, helping himself to the haricots verts. (The girl ate positively nothing.) "But it seems odd that you can't go about your affairs after my own reasonable manner."
"I am only twenty."
The old man's shoulders rose and fell resignedly.
"No man has an answer for that."
"I promise to tell you everything that happens; by telegraph."
"That's small comfort. Imagine receiving a telegram early in the morning, when a man's brain is without invention or coherency of thought! I would that you were back home with your father. I might sleep o' nights, then."
"I have so little amusement!"
"You work three hours a day and earn more in a week than your father and I do in a month. Yours is a very unhappy lot."
"I hate the smell of paints; I hate the studio."
"And I suppose you hate your fame?" acridly.
"Bah! that is my card to a living. The people I meet bore me."
"Not satisfied with common folks, eh? Must have kings and queens to talk to?"
"I only want to live abroad, and you and father will not let me,"--petulantly.
The music started up, and I heard no more. Occasionally the girl glanced at me and smiled in a friendly fashion. She was evidently an artist's model; and when they have hair and color like this girl's, the pay is good. I found myself wondering why she was bored and why Carmen had so suddenly lost its charms.
It was seven o'clock when I pushed aside my plate and paid my check. I calculated that by hustling I could reach Blankshire either at ten or ten-thirty. That would be early enough for my needs. And now to route out a costumer. All I needed was a grey mask. I had in my apartments a Capuchin's robe and cowl. I rose, lighting a cigarette.
The girl looked up from her coffee.
"Back to the dime-museum?"--banteringly.
"I have a few minutes to spare," said I.
"By the way, I forgot to ask you what card you drew."
"It was the ten of hearts."
"The ten of hearts?" Her amazement was not understandable.
"Yes, the ten of hearts; Cupid and all that."
She recovered her composure quickly.
"Then you will not blow up the post-office to-night?"
"No," I replied, "not to-night."
"You have really and truly aroused my curiosity. Tell me, what does the ten of hearts mean to you?"
I gazed thoughtfully down at her. Had I truly mystified her? There was some doubt in my mind.
"Frankly, I wish I might tell you. All I am at liberty to say is that I am about to set forth upon a desperate adventure, and I shall be very fortunate if I do not