The Black Cross | Page 8

chance breeze, or a careless hand, may have
scattered them. Near it was the exquisite bronze figure of a young satyr
playing the flute, the childish arms and limbs, round and molded,
glowing rosy and warm in the lamp light. In one corner was a violin
stand, a bow tossed heedlessly across it; and all about were boxes, half
packed and disordered. The curtains were drawn. The malachite clock
on the mantel-piece was striking two.
Velasco stirred suddenly and his dark head turned from the fire light,
moving restlessly against the cushions. He was weary. The applause,
the uproar of the Mariínski was still in his ears; before his eyes danced
innumerable notes, tiny and black, the sound of them boring into his
brain.
"Ye gods--ye gods!"
The young Violinist sprang up and began pacing the room, pressing his
hands to his eyes to drive away the notes, humming to himself to get
rid of the sound, the theme, the one haunting, irrepressible 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