The Golden Ball and Other Stories

  staircases, and a slap-up private theatre. Rolling in money

  they are, and always giving some private show. She suggests

  that we give a complete opera, preferably Butterfly." "Butterfly?" Cowan nodded.

  "And they are prepared to pay. We'll have to square Covent Garden, of course, but even after that it will be well

  worth your while financially. In all probability, royalty will

  be present. It will be a slap-up advertisement."

  Madame raised her still beautiful chin.

  "Do I need advertisementT' she demanded proudly.

  "You can't have too much of a good thing," said Cowan, unabashed.

  "Rustonbury," murmured the singer; "where did I

  116 Agatha Christie

  She sprang up suddenly and, running to the center table, began turning over the pages of an illustrated paper which

  lay there. There was a sudden pause as her hand stopped,

  hovering over one of the pages, then she let the periodical

  slip to the floor and returned slowly to her seat. With one

  of her swift changes of mood, she seemed now an entirely

  different personality. Her manner was very quiet, almost

  austere.

  "Make all arrangements for Rustonbury. I would like to sing there, but there is one condition--the opera must be Tosca."

  Cowan looked doubtful.

  "That will be rather difficult--for a private show, you

  know, scenery and all that."

  "Tosca or nothing."

  Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed

  to convince him; he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet. "I will see what I can arrange," he said quietly.

  Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision.

  "It is my greatest role, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it."

  "It is a fine part," said Cowan. "Jeritza made a great hit in it last year."

  "Jeritza?" cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her opinion of

  Jeritza.

  Cowan, who was used to listening to singers' opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade was

  over; he then said obstinately:

  "Anyway, she sings 'Vissi D'Arte' lying on her stomach.''

  "And why not?" demanded Nazorkoff. "What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs waving

  in the air."

  Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness.

  "I don't believe that would go down any," he informed her. "All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know."

  "No one can sing 'Vissi D'Arte' as I can," said Nazorkoff confidently. "I sing it in the voice of the convent--as the

  good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the

  SWAN SONG 117

  voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without

  passion."

  "I know," said Cowan heartily. "I have heard you; you

  are wonderful."

  "That is art," said the prima donna, "to pay the price,

  to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all

  knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the

  beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a

  child."

  Cowan looked at her curiously. She was stating past him

  with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about

  that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just

  parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He

  only just caught them.

  "At last," she murmured. "At last--after all these years."

  II

  Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic

  woman; she ran the two qualities in harness with complete

  success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who

  cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not

  hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large,

  square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing

  else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was

  glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her

  schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a

  hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury's

  chief toy--she had already given an Ibsen drama in

  it, and a play of the ultra new school; all divorce and drugs,

  also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming

  performance of Tosca had created widespread interest. Lady

  Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished house party

  for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to

  attend.

  Mme. Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before

  luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was

  to sing "Cavaradossi," and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone,

  was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had

  been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Na

  118

  Agatha Christie

  zorkoff was in the best of humours; she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan

  was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things

  might continue.

  After luncheon the company went out to the theatre and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra

  was under the direction of Mr. Samuel Ridge, one

  of England's most famous conductors. Everything seemed

  to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact

  worried Mr. Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere

  of trouble; this unusual peace disturbed him.

  "Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly," murmured Mr. Cowan to himself. "Madame is like a cat that

  has been fed on cream. It's too good to last; something is

  bound to happen."

  Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr. Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly

  his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven

  o'clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came

  running to him in great distress.

  "Ah, Mr. Cowan, come quickly; I beg of you come quickly."

  "What's the matter?" demanded Cowan anxiously. "Madame got her back up about anything--ructions, eh, is that

  it?"

  "No, no, it is not Madame; it is Signor Roscari. He is ill; he is dying!"

  "Dying? Oh, come now."

  Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian's bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or

  rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions

  that would have been humorous had they been less grave.

  Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan

  imperiously.

  "Ah! There you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something."

  "I am dying," groaned the little man. "The pain--it is terrible. Ow!"

  He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.

  "We must send for a doctor," said Cowan.

  SWAN SONG 1 1 9

  Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.

  "The doctor is already on his way; he will do all that can

  be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, brat

  never, never will Roscari be able to sing tonight."

  "I shall never sing again; I am dying," groaned the Italiarl.

  "No, no, you are not dying," said Paula. "It is but an

  indige
stion, but all the same, impossible that you shoul,d

  sing."

  "I have been poisoned."

  "Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt," said Paula. "Sta3, with him, Elise, till the doctor comes."

  The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.

  "What are we to do?" she demanded.

  Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far

  advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone fropn

  London to take Roscari's place. Lady Rustonbury, who had

  just been informed of her guest's illness, came hurrying

  along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like

  Paula Nazorkoff's, was the success of Tosca.

  "If there were only someone near at hand," groaned the

  prima donna.

  "Ah!" Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. "Of course!

  Br6on."

  "Br6on?"

  "Yes, Edouard Br6on, you know, the famous French

  baritone. He lives near here. There was a picture of his

  house in this week's Country Homes. He is the very man."

  "It is an answer from heaven," cried Nazorkoff. "Br6on

  as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest

  r61es. But he has retired, has he not?"

  "I will get him," said Lady Rustonbury. "Leave it to me.'

  And being a woman of decision, she straightway ordered

  out the Hispano Suiza. Ten minutes later, M. Edouartl

  Br6on's country retreat was invaded by an agitated countess.

  Lady Rustonbury, once she had made her mind up, was a

  very determined woman, and doubtless M. Br6on realized

  that there was nothing for it but to submit. Also, it must be

  confessed, he had a weakness for countesses. Himself a

  man of very humble origin, he had climbed to the top of

  his profession, and had consorted on equal terms with dukes

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  Agatha Christie

  and princes, and the fact never failed to gratify him. Yet,

  since his retirement to this old-world English spot, he had

  known discontent. He missed the life of adulation and applause,

  and the English county had not been as prompt to

  recognize him as he thought they should have been. So he

  was greatly flattered and charmed by Lady Rustonbury's

  request.

  "I will do my poor best," he said, smiling. "As you know,

  I have not sung in public for a long time now. I do not even

  take pupils, only one or two as a great favour. But there--

  since Signor Roscari is unfounately indisposed---"

  "It was a terrible blow," said Lady Rustonbury.

  "Not that he is really a singer," said Br6on.

  He told her at some length why this was so. There had

  been, it seemed, no baritone of distinction since Edouard

  Br6on retired.

  "Mme. Nazorkoff is singing 'Tosca,'" said Lady Rustonbury.

  "You know her, I dare say?"

  "I have never met her," said Br6on. "I heard her sing

  once in New York. A great artist--she has a sense of

  drama."

  Lady Rustonbury felt relieved--one never knew with

  these singers--they had such queer jealousies and antipathies.

  She re-entered the hall at the castle some twenty minutes

  later waving a triumphant hand.

  "I have got him," she cried, laughing. "Dear M. Br6on

  has really been too kind. I shall never forget it."

  Everyone crowded round the Frenchman, and their gratitude

  and appreciation were as incense to him. Edouard

  Br6on, though now close on sixty, was still a fine-looking

  man, big and dark, with a magnetic personality.

  "Let me see," said Lady Rustonbury. "Where is Madame--?

  Oh! There she is."

  Paula Nazorkoff had taken no part in the general welcoming

  of the Frenchman. She had remained quietly sitting

  in a high oak chair in the shadow of the fireplace. There

  was, of course, no fire, for the evening was a warm one

  and the singer was slowly fanning herself with an immense

  palm-leaf fan. So aloof and detached was she, that Lady

  Rustonbury feared she had taken offence.

  SWAN SONG

  121

  "M. Bron." She led him up to the singer. "You have

  never yet met Madame Nazorkoff, you say."

  With a last wave, almost a flourish, of the palm leaf,

  Paula Nazorkoff laid it down and stretched out her hand to

  the Frenchman. He took it and bowed low over it, and a

  faint sigh escaped from the prima donna's lips.

  "Madame," said Br6on, "we have never sung together.

  That is the penalty of my age! But Fate has been kind to

  me, and come to my rescue."

  Paula laughed softly.

  "You are too kind, M. Bron. When I was still but a

  poor little unknown singer, I have sat at your feet. Your

  'Rigoletto'--what art, what perfection! No one could touch

  you."

  "Alas!" said Br6on, pretending to sigh. "My day is over.

  Scarpia, Rigoletto, Radams, Sharpless, how many times

  have I not sung them, and now--no more!"

  "Yes--tonight."

  "True, madame--I forgot. Tonight."

  "You have sung with many 'Tosca's," said Nazorkoff

  arrogantly, "but never with me!"

  The Frenchman bowed.

  "It will be an honour," he said softly. "It is a great part,

  madame."

  "It needs not only a singer, but an actress," put in Lady Rustonbury.

  "That is true," Br6on agreed. "I remember when I was

  a young man in Italy, going to a little out-of-the-way theatre

  in Milan. My seat cost me only a couple of lira, but I heard

  as good singing that night as I have heard in the Metropolitan

  Opera House in New York. Quite a young girl sang 'Tosca';

  she sang it like an angel. Never shall I forget her voice in

  'Vissi D'Arte,' the clearness of it, the purity. But the dramatic

  force, that was lacking."

  Nazorkoff nodded.

  "Tha comes later," she said quietly.

  "True. This young girl--Bianca Capelli her name was--I

  interested myself in her career. Through me she had the

  chance of big engagements, but she was foolish--regrett-ably

  foolish."

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  122

  Agatha Christie

  "How was she foolish?"

  It wa Lady Rustonbury's twenty-four-year-old daughter, Blanche Amery, who spoke--a slender girl with wide blue

  eyes.

  The lrenchrnan turned to her at once politely.

  "Alas! Mademoiselle, she had embroiled herself with some lo,w fellow, a ruffian, a member of the Camorra. He

  got into trouble with the police, was condemned to death;

  she came to me begging me to do something to save her

  lover."

  Blanche Ataery was staring at him.

  "And did you?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Me, madenoiselle, what could I do? A stranger in the country."

  "You might have had influence?" suggested Nazorkoff in her low, vibrant voice.

  "If I Iad, I doubt whether I should have exerted it. The man was not worth it. I did what I could for the girl."

  He scailed a little, and his smile suddenly struck the English girl as having something peculiarly disagreeable

  about it. She felt that, at that moment, his words fell far

  short of representing his thoughts.

  "You did wh
at you could," said Nazorkoff. "That was kind of you, and she was grateful, eh?"

  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

  "The man was executed," he said, "and the girl entered

  a convert. Eh, voild.t The world has lost a singer." Nazotkoff gave a low laugh.

  "We Russians are more fickle," she said lightly. Blanche Amery happened to be watching Cowan just ,,

  the singer spoke, and she saw his quick look of astonishment,

  arid his lips that half opened and then shut tight in

  obedience to some warning glance from Paula.

  The !utler appeared in the doorway.

  "Dimaer," said Lady Rustonbury, rising. "You poor things, I am so sorry for you It must be dreadful always to have

  to starve yourself before singing. But there will be a very

  good supper afterwards."

  "We shall look forward to it," said Paula Nazorkoff. She laughed softly. "Afterwards!"

  SWAN SONG 123

  III

  Inside the'theatre, the first act of Tosca had just drawn

  to a close. The audience stirred, spoke to each other. The

  royalties, charming and gracious, sat in the three velvet

  chairs in the front row. Everyone was whispering and murmuring

  to each other; there was a general feeling that in the

  first act Nazorkoff had hardly lived up to her great reputation.

  Most of the audience did not realize that in this the

  singer showed her art; in the first act she was saving her

  voice and herself. She made of La Tosca a light, frivolous

  figure, toying with love, coquettishly jealous and exacting.

  Br6on, though the glory of his voice was past its prime,

  still struck a magnificent figure as the cynical Scarpia. There

  was no hint of the decrepit rou6 in his conception of the

  part. He made of Scarpia a handsome, almost benign figure,

  with just a hint of the subtle malevolence that underlay the

  outward seeming. In the last passage, with the organ and

  the procession, when Scarpia stands lost in thought, gloating

  over his plan to secure Tosca, Br6on had displayed a wonderful

  art. Now the curtain rose upon the second act, the

  scene in Scarpia's apartments.

  This time, when Tosca entered, the art of Nazorkoff at