The Primadonna | Page 7

past was even
more entirely a matter of conjecture than his future, it would be useless
to inquire into the former or to speculate about the latter. Moreover, in
these break-neck days no time counts but the present, so far as
reputation goes; good fame itself now resembles righteousness chiefly
because it clothes men as with a garment; and as we have the highest
authority for assuming that charity covers a multitude of sins, we can
hardly be surprised that it should be so generally used for that purpose.
Rufus Van Torp's charities were notorious, aggressive, and profitable.
The same sums of money could not have bought as much mingled
advertisement and immunity in any other way.

'Of course,' observed Alphonsine, seeing that Margaret would soon be
able to speak again, 'money is no object to Madame either!'
This subtle flattery was evidently meant to forestall reproof. But
Margaret was now splashing vigorously, and as both taps were running
the noise was as loud as that of a small waterfall; possibly she had not
even heard the maid's last speech.
Some one knocked at the door, and knocked a second time almost
directly. The Primadonna pushed Alphonsine with her elbow, speaking
being still impossible, and the woman understood that she was to
answer the summons.
She asked who was knocking, and some one answered.
'It is Mr. Griggs,' said Alphonsine.
'Ask him to wait,' Margaret succeeded in saying.
Alphonsine transmitted the message through the closed door, and
listened for the answer.
'He says that there is a lady dying in the manager's room, who wants
Madame,' said the maid, repeating what she heard.
Margaret stood upright, turned quickly, and crossed the room to the
door, mopping her face with a towel.
'Who is it?' she asked in an anxious tone.
'I'm Griggs,' said a deep voice. 'Come at once, if you can, for the poor
girl cannot last long.'
'One minute! Don't go away--I'm coming out.'
Alphonsine never lost her head. A theatrical dresser who does is of no
use. She had already brought the wide fur coat Margaret always wore
after singing. In ten seconds the singer was completely clothed in it,
and as she laid her hand on the lock to let herself out, the maid placed a

dark Russian hood on her head from behind her and took the long ends
twice round her throat.
Mr. Griggs was a large bony man with iron-grey hair, who looked very
strong. He had a sad face and deep-set grey eyes. He led the way
without speaking, and Cordova walked quickly after him. Alphonsine
did not follow, for she was responsible for the belongings that lay about
in the dressing-room. The other doors on the women's side, which is on
the stage left and the audience's right at the Opera, were all tightly
closed. The stage itself was not dark yet, and the carpenters were
putting away the scenery of the last act as methodically as if nothing
had happened.
'Do you know her?' Margaret asked of her companion as they hurried
along the passage that leads into the house.
'Barely. She is a Miss Bamberger, and she was to have been married
the day after to-morrow, poor thing--to a millionaire. I always forget
his name, though I've met him several times.'
'Van Torp?' asked Margaret as they hastened on.
'Yes. That's it--the Nickel Trust man, you know.'
'Yes,' Margaret answered in a low tone. 'I was asked to sing at the
wedding.'
They reached the door of the manager's room. The clerks from the
box-office and several other persons employed about the house were
whispering together in the little lobby. They made way for Cordova and
looked with curiosity at Griggs, who was a well-known man of letters.
Schreiermeyer stood at the half-closed inner door, evidently waiting.
'Come in,' he said to Margaret. 'The doctor is there.'
The room was flooded with electric light, and smelt of very strong
Havana cigars and brandy. Margaret saw a slight figure in a red silk

evening gown, lying at full length on an immense red leathern sofa. A
young doctor was kneeling on the floor, bending down to press his ear
against the girl's side; he moved his head continually, listening for the
beating of her heart. Her face was of a type every one knows, and had a
certain half-pathetic prettiness; the features were small, and the chin
was degenerate but delicately modelled. The rather colourless fair hair
was elaborately done; her thin cheeks were dreadfully white, and her
thin neck shrank painfully each time she breathed out, though it grew
smooth and full as she drew in her breath. A short string of very large
pearls was round her throat, and gleamed in the light as her breathing
moved them.
Schreiermeyer did not