The Black Cross | Page 8

motive. He walked up and down, lighting one cigarette after the other, puffing once, twice, and then hurling it half-smoked into the coals.
Every little while he stopped and seemed to be listening. Then he went back to his seat before the fire-place and flinging himself down began to play, a few bars at a time, stopping and listening, then playing again. As he played, his eyes grew dreamy and heavy, the brows seemed to press upon them until they drooped under the lids, and his dark hair fell like a screen.
When he stopped, a strange, moody look came over his face and he frowned, tapping the rug nervously with his foot. Sometimes he held the violin between his knees, playing on it as on a cello; then he caught it to his breast again in a sudden fury of improvisation--an arpeggio, light and running, his fingers barely touching the strings--the snatch of a theme--a trill, low and passionate--the rush of a scale. He toyed with the Stradivarius mocking it, clasping it, listening.
His overwrought nerves were as pinpoints pricking his body. His brain was like a church, the organ of music filling it, thundering, reverberating, dying away; and then, as he lay back exhausted, low, subtle, insinuating ran the theme in his ears, the maddening motive.
Beside him was a stand, with a decanter of red wine and a glass. The wine was lustrous and sparkling. He drank of it, and lit another cigarette and threw it away. Presently Velasco took from his pocket a twist of paper blotted, and studied it, with his head in his hands.
"Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya."
He listened again.
The theme was still running, the black notes dancing; but between them intertwined was a face, upturned, exquisite, the eyes pleading, the lips parted, hands clasped and beckoning. That night at the Mariínski--ah!
He had searched for her everywhere. Ushers had flown from loggia to loggia, ransacking the Theatre. Next to the Imperial Box, or was it the second? To the right?--no, the left! Below, or perhaps on the Bel-Etage?--All in vain. Was it only a dream? He stared down at the twist of paper blotted "Kaya--to-night."
Her name came to his lips and he repeated it aloud, smiling to himself, musing. His eyes gazed into the coals, dreamy, heavy, half open, gleaming like dark slits under the brows. They closed gradually and his head fell lower. His hands relaxed. The violin lay on his breast, his pale cheek resting against the arch.
He was asleep.
All of a sudden there came a light tap on the door. A pause, a tap, still lighter; then another pause.
Velasco raised his head and tossed back his hair restlessly; his eyes drooped again.
"Tap--tap."
He started and listened.
Some one was at the Studio door--something. It was like the flutter of a bird's wing against the oak, softly, persistently.
"Tap--tap."
He rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet and went to the door. It was strange, inexplicable. After two, and the moon was gone, the night was dark--unless--An eager look came into his eyes.
"Who is there?" he cried, "Who are you? What do you want?"
A silence followed, as if the bird had poised suddenly with wings outstretched, hovering. Then it came again against the oak: "Tap--tap."
Velasco threw open the door: "Bózhe moi!"
As he did so, a woman's figure, slim and small, hooded and wrapped in a long, black cloak, darted inside, and snatching the door from his hand, closed it behind her rapidly, fearfully, glancing back into the darkness. The woman was panting under the hood. She braced herself against the door, still clasping the bolt as though a weapon. Her back was crooked beneath the cloak and she seemed to be crippled.
Velasco drew back. His eagerness vanished and the light died out of his face. "Who in the name of--" He hesitated: "What in the world--" Then he hesitated again, his dark eyes blinking under his brows.
The woman stretched her hands from under the cloak, clasping them. She was fighting hard for her breath.
"Tell me, Monsieur," she whispered, "Tell me quickly--are you married? Are you going alone to Germany?" Her voice shook and trembled: "Oh, tell me,--quickly."
"Married, my good woman!" exclaimed Velasco. His eyes opened wide and he drew back a little further: "Why really, Madame--Of course I am going alone to Germany. What do you mean? How extraordinary!"
"Quite alone?" repeated the woman, "no friend, no manager? Oh then, sir, do me the little favour, the kindness--it will cost you nothing--I shall never forget it--I shall bless you all the days of my life."
She took a step forward, limping. Velasco recovered himself.
"Sit down, Madame," he said, "and explain. You are trembling so. Let me give you some wine.--Wait a minute. There,--is it money you want? Tell me."
His manner was that of a prince to a beggar, lofty, authoritative, kindly,