Egg-and-Milk

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I was intensely conscious of her beauty as I sat by her side in the
swiftly rolling victoria. And I was conscious of other qualities in
her too--of her homeliness, her good-fellowship, her trustfulness. The
fact that she was one of the most famous personalities in Europe did
not, after our talk, in the least disturb my pleasing dreams of a
possible future. It was, nevertheless, specially forced upon me, for
as we drove along the Rue de Rivoli, past the interminable façades of
the Louvre, and the big shops, and so into the meaner quarter of the
markets--the Opéra Comique was then situated in its temporary home in
the Place du Châtelet--numberless wayfarers showed by their demeanor
of curiosity that Rosetta Rosa was known to them. They were much more
polite than English people would have been, but they did not hide
their interest in us.
The jewels had been locked away in a safe, except one gorgeous emerald
brooch which she was wearing at her neck.
"It appears," I said, "that in Paris one must not even attend
rehearsals without jewels."
She laughed.
"You think I have a passion for jewels, and you despise me for it."
"By no means. Nobody has a better right to wear precious stones than
yourself."
"Can you guess why I wear them?"
"Not because they make you look prettier, for that's impossible."
"Will you please remember that I like you because you are not in the
habit of making speeches."
"I beg pardon. I won't offend again. Well, then, I will confess that I
don't know why you wear jewels. There must be a Puritan strain in my
character, for I cannot enter into the desire for jewels. I say this
merely because you have practically invited me to be brutal."

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Now that I recall that conversation I realize how gentle she was
towards my crude and callous notions concerning personal adornment.
"Yet you went to England in order to fetch my jewels."
"No, I went to England in order to be of use to a lady. But tell
me--why do you wear jewels off the stage?"
"Simply because, having them, I have a sort of feeling that they ought
to be used. It seems a waste to keep them hidden in a strong box, and
I never could tolerate waste. Really, I scarcely care more for jewels,
as jewels, than you do yourself."
"Still, for a person who doesn't care for them, you seem to have a
fair quantity of them."
"Ah! But many were given to me--and the rest I bought when I was
young, or soon afterwards. Besides, they are part of my stock in
trade."
"When you were young!" I repeated, smiling. "How long is that since?"
"Ages."
I coughed.
"It is seven years since I was young," she said, "and I was sixteen at
the time."
"You are positively venerable, then; and since you are, I must be
too."
"I am much older than you are," she said; "not in years, but in life.
You don't feel old."
"And do you?"
"Frightfully."
"What brings it on?"
"Oh! Experience--and other things. It is the soul which grows old."
"But you have been happy?"
"Never--never in my life, except when I was singing, have I been
happy. Have you been happy?"

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"Yes," I said, "once or twice."
"When you were a boy?"
"No, since I have become a man. Just--just recently."
"People fancy they are happy," she murmured.
"Isn't that the same thing as being happy?"
"Perhaps." Then suddenly changing the subject: "You haven't told me
about your journey. Just a bare statement that there was a delay on
the railway and another delay on the steamer. Don't you think you
ought to fill in the details?"
So I filled them in; but I said nothing about my mysterious enemy who
had accompanied me, and who after strangely disappearing and
reappearing had disappeared again; nor about the woman whom I had met
on the Admiralty Pier. I wondered when he might reappear once more.
There was no proper reason why I should not have told Rosa about these
persons, but some instinctive feeling, some timidity of spirit,
prevented me from doing so.
"How thrilling! Were you frightened on the steamer?" she asked.
"Yes," I admitted frankly.
"You may not think it," she said, "but I should not have been
frightened. I have never been frightened at Death."
"But have you ever been near him?"
"Who knows?" she answered thoughtfully.
We were at the stage-door of the theatre. The olive-liveried footman
dismounted, and gravely opened the door of the carriage. I got out,
and gave my hand to Rosa, and we entered the theatre.
In an instant she had become the prima donna. The curious little
officials of the theatre bowed before her, and with prodigious smiles
waved us forward to the stage. The stage-manager, a small, fat man
with white hair, was drilling the chorus. As soon as he caught sight
of us he dismissed the short-skirted girls and the fatigued-looking
men, and skipped towards us. The orchestra suddenly ceased. Everyone
was quiet. The star had come.

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"Good day, mademoiselle. You are here to the moment."
Rosa and the régisseur talked rapidly together, and presently the
conductor of the orchestra stepped from his raised chair on to the
stage, and with a stately inclination to Rosa joined in the
conversation. As for me, I looked about, and was stared at. So far as
I could see there was not much difference between an English stage and
a French stage, viewed at close quarters, except that the French
variety possesses perhaps more officials and a more bureaucratic air.
I gazed into the cold, gloomy auditorium, so bare of decoration, and
decided that in England such an auditorium would not be tolerated.
After much further chatter the conductor bowed again, and returned to
his seat. Rosa beckoned to me, and I was introduced to the
stage-manager.
"Allow me to present to you Mr. Foster, one of my friends."
Rosa coughed, and I noticed that her voice was slightly hoarse.
"You have taken cold during the drive," I said, pouring into the sea
of French a little stream of English.
"Oh, no. It is nothing; it will pass off in a minute."
The stage-manager escorted me to a chair near a grand piano which
stood in the wings. Then some male artists, evidently people of
importance, appeared out of the darkness at the back of the stage.
Rosa took off her hat and gloves, and placed them on the grand piano.
I observed that she was flushed, and I put it down to the natural
excitement of the artist about to begin work. The orchestra sounded
resonantly in the empty theatre, and, under the yellow glare of
unshaded electricity, the rehearsal of "Carmen" began at the point
where Carmen makes her first entry.

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As Rosa came to the centre of the stage from the wings she staggered.
One would have thought she was drunk. At her cue, instead of
commencing to sing, she threw up her hands, and with an appealing
glance at me sank down to the floor. I rushed to her, and immediately
the entire personnel of the theatre was in a state of the liveliest
excitement. I thought of a similar scene in London not many months
before. But the poor girl was perfectly conscious, and even
self-possessed.
"Water!" she murmured. "I shall die of thirst if you don't give me
some water to drink at once."
There appeared to be no water within the theatre, but at last some one
appeared with a carafe and glass. She drank two glassfuls, and then
dropped the glass, which broke on the floor.
"I am not well," she said; "I feel so hot, and there is that
hoarseness in my throat. Mr. Foster, you must take me home. The
rehearsal will have to be postponed again; I am sorry. It's very
queer."
She stood up with my assistance, looking wildly about her, but
appealing to no one but myself.
"It is queer," I said, supporting her.
"Mademoiselle was ill in the same way last time," several sympathetic
voices cried out, and some of the women caressed her gently.
"Let me get home," she said, half-shouting, and she clung to me. "My
hat--my gloves--quick!"
"Yes, yes," I said; "I will get a fiacre."
"Why not my victoria?" she questioned imperiously.

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"Because you must go in a closed carriage," I said firmly.
"Mademoiselle will accept my brougham?"
A tall dark man had come forward. He was the Escamillo. She thanked
him with a look. Some woman threw a cloak over Rosa's shoulders, and,
the baritone on one side of her and myself on the other, we left the
theatre. It seemed scarcely a moment since she had entered it
confident and proud.
During the drive back to her flat I did not speak, but I examined her
narrowly. Her skin was dry and burning, and on her forehead there was
a slight rash. Her lips were dry, and she continually made the motion
of swallowing. Her eyes sparkled, and they seemed to stand out from
her head. Also she still bitterly complained of thirst. She wanted,
indeed, to stop the carriage and have something to drink at the Café
de l'Univers, but I absolutely declined to permit such a proceeding,
and in a few minutes we were at her flat. The attack was passing away.
She mounted the stairs without much difficulty.
"You must go to bed," I said. We were in the salon. "In a few hours
you will be better."
"I will ring for Yvette."
"No," I said, "you will not ring for Yvette. I want Yvette myself.
Have you no other servant who can assist you?"
"Yes. But why not Yvette?"
"You can question me to-morrow. Please obey me now. I am your doctor.
I will ring the bell. Yvette will come, and you will at once go out of
the room, find another servant, and retire to bed. You can do that?
You are not faint?"

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"No, I can do it; but it is very queer."
I rang the bell.
"You have said that before, and I say, 'It is queer; queerer than you
imagine.' One thing I must ask you before you go. When you had the
attack in the theatre did you see things double?"
"Yes," she answered. "But how did you know? I felt as though I was
intoxicated; but I had taken nothing whatever."
"Excuse me, you had taken egg-and-milk. Here is the glass out of which
you drank it." I picked up the glass, which had been left on the
table, and which still contained about a spoonful of egg-and-milk.
Yvette entered in response to my summons.
"Mademoiselle has returned soon," the girl began lightly.
"Yes."
The two women looked at each other. I hastened to the door, and held
it open for Rosa to pass out. She did so. I closed the door, and put
my back against it. The glass I still held in my hand.
"Now, Yvette, I want to ask you a few questions."
She stood before me, pretty even in her plain black frock and black
apron, and folded her hands. Her face showed no emotion whatever.
"Yes, monsieur, but mademoiselle will need me."
"Mademoiselle will not need you. She will never need you again."
"Monsieur says?"
"You see this glass. What did you put in it?"
"The cook put egg-and-milk into it."
"I ask what you put in it?"
"I, monsieur? Nothing."

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"You are lying, my girl. Your mistress has been poisoned."
"I swear--"
"I should advise you not to swear. You have twice attempted to poison
your mistress. Why did you do it?"
"But this is absurd."
"Does your mistress use eyedrops when she sings at the Opéra?"
"Eyedrops?"
"You know what I mean. A lotion which you drop into the eye in order
to dilate the pupil."
"My mistress never uses eyedrops."
"Does Madame Carlotta Deschamps use eyedrops?"
It was a courageous move on my part, but it had its effect. She was
startled.
"I--I don't know, monsieur."
"I ask because eyedrops contain atropine, and mademoiselle is
suffering from a slight, a very slight, attack of atropine poisoning.
The dose must have been very nicely gauged; it was just enough to
produce a temporary hoarseness and discomfort. I needn't tell such a
clever girl as you that atropine acts first on the throat. It has
clearly been some one's intention to prevent mademoiselle from singing
at rehearsals, and from appearing in Paris in 'Carmen.'"
Yvette drew herself up, her nostrils quivering. She had turned
decidedly pale.
"Monsieur insults me by his suspicions. I must go."
"You won't go just immediately. I may tell you further that I have
analyzed the contents of this glass, and have found traces of
atropine."
I had done no such thing, but that was a detail.
"Also, I have sent for the police."
This, too, was an imaginative statement.
Yvette approached me suddenly, and flung her arms round my neck. I had
just time to put the glass on the seat of a chair and seize her hands.

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"No," I said, "you will neither spill that glass nor break it."
She dropped at my feet weeping.
"Have pity on me, monsieur!" She looked up at me through her tears,
and the pose was distinctly effective. "It was Madame Deschamps who
asked me to do it. I used to be with her before I came to
mademoiselle. She gave me the bottle, but I didn't know it was
poison--I swear I didn't!"
"What did you take it to be, then? Jam? Two grains of atropine will
cause death."
For answer she clung to my knees. I released myself, and moved away a
few steps. She jumped up, and made a dash for the door, but I happened
to have locked it.
"Where is Madame Deschamps?" I asked.
"She returns to Paris to-morrow. Monsieur will let me go. I was only a
tool."
"I will consider that matter, Yvette," I said. "In my opinion you are
a thoroughly wicked girl, and I wouldn't trust you any further than I
could see you. For the present, you will have an opportunity to
meditate over your misdoings." I left the room, and locked the door on
the outside.
Impossible to disguise the fact that I was enormously pleased with
myself--with my sharpness, my smartness, my penetration, my success.