The Primadonna | Page 6

she had yielded to Alphonsine's entreaties and representations and
had adopted the butter method, long familiar to chimney-sweeps.
The butter lay ready; not in a lordly dish, but in a clean tin can with a
cover, of the kind workmen use for fetching beer, and commonly called
a 'growler' in New York, for some reason which escapes etymologists.
Having got rid of the upper strata of white lace and fine linen, artfully
done up so as to tremble like aspen leaves with Lucia's mad trills,
Margaret proceeded to butter her face thoroughly. It occurred to her
just then that all the other artists who had appeared with her were
presumably buttering their faces at the same moment, and that if the
public could look in upon them it would be very much surprised indeed.
At the thought she forgot what she had been thinking of and smiled.
The maid, who was holding her hair back where it escaped the comb,
smiled too, and evidently considered that the relaxation of Margaret's
buttered features was equivalent to a permission to speak.
'It was a great triumph for Madame,' she observed. 'All the papers will
praise Madame to-morrow. Madame saved many lives.'
'Was Mr. Griggs in the house?' Margaret asked. 'I did not see him.'
Alphonsine did not answer at once, and when she spoke her tone had
changed.
'Yes, Madame. Mr. Griggs was in the house.'
Margaret wondered whether she had saved his life too, in his own
estimation or in that of her maid, and while she pondered the question
she buttered her nose industriously.

Alphonsine took a commercial view of the case.
'If Madame would appear three times more in New York, before sailing,
the manager would give ten thousand francs a night,' she observed.
Margaret said nothing to this, but she thought it would be amusing to
show herself to an admiring public in her present condition.
'Madame is now a heroine,' continued Alphonsine, behind her.
'Madame can ask anything she pleases. Several milliardaires will now
offer to marry Madame.'
'Alphonsine,' answered Margaret, 'you have no sense.'
The maid smiled, knowing that her mistress could not see even the
reflection of the smile in the glass; but she said nothing.
'No sense,' Margaret repeated, with conviction. 'None at all'
The maid allowed a few seconds to pass before she spoke again.
'Or if Madame would accept to sing in one or two private houses in
New York, we could ask a very great price, more than the manager
would give.'
'I daresay.'
'It is certain,' said Alphonsine. 'At the French ball to which Madame
kindly allowed me to go, the valet of Mr. Van Torp approached me.'
'Indeed!' exclaimed Cordova absently. 'How very disagreeable!'
'I see that Madame is not listening,' said Alphonsine, taking offence.
What she said was so true that Margaret did not answer at all. Besides,
the buttering process was finished, and it was time for the hot water.
She went to the ugly stationary washstand and bent over it, while the
maid kept her hair from her face. Alphonsine spoke again when she
was sure that her mistress could not possibly answer her.

'Mr. Van Torp's valet asked me whether I thought Madame would be
willing to sing in church, at the wedding, the day after to-morrow,' she
said, holding the Primadonna's back hair firmly.
The head moved energetically under her hands. Margaret would
certainly not sing at Mr. Van Torp's wedding, and she even tried to say
so, but her voice only bubbled and sputtered ineffectually through the
soap and water.
'I was sure Madame would not,' continued the maid, 'though Mr. Van
Torp's valet said that money was no object. He had heard Mr. Van Torp
say that he would give five thousand dollars to have Madame sing at
his wedding.'
Margaret did not shake her head this time, nor try to speak, but
Alphonsine heard the little impatient tap of her slipper on the wooden
floor. It was not often that the Primadonna showed so much annoyance
at anything; and of late, when she did, the cause had been connected
with this same Mr. Van Torp. The mere mention of his name irritated
her, and Alphonsine seemed to know it, and to take an inexplicable
pleasure in talking about him--about Mr. Rufus Van Torp, formerly of
Chicago, but now of New York. He was looked upon as the controlling
intellect of the great Nickel Trust; in fact, he was the Nickel Trust
himself, and the other men in it were mere dummies compared with
him. He had sailed the uncertain waters of finance for twenty years or
more, and had been nearly shipwrecked more than once, but at the time
of this story he was on the top of the wave; and as his