THE SIGN OF THE SEVEN SINS

THE SIGN OF THE SEVEN SINS

BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX AUTHOR OF “THE EYE OF ISTAR,” “THE TEMPTRESS,” “ZORAIDA,” ETC.

PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1901

Copyright, 1900 by J. B. Lippincott Company ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

CHAPTER I IS PURELY PERSONAL

No; I dare not reveal everything here, lest I may be misjudged. The narrative is, to say the least, a strange one; so amazing, indeed, that had I not been one of the actual persons concerned therein I would never have believed that such things could be.

Yet these chapters of an eventful personal history, remarkable though they may appear, are nevertheless the truth, a combination of unusual circumstances which will be found startling and curious, idyllic and tragic. Reader, I would confess all if I dared, but each of us have skeletons in our cupboards, both you and I—for, alas! I am no exception to the general rule among women.

If compelled by natural instinct to suppress one single fact, I may also add that it has little or nothing to do with the circumstances herein related. [8]It only concerns myself, and no woman cares to afford food for gossips at her own expense. Briefly, it is my intention to narrate plainly and straightforwardly all that occurred, in the hope that those who read may approach it with a perfectly open mind and afterwards adjudge me fairly, impartially, and without the prejudice attaching to one whose shortcomings are many, and whose actions have perhaps not always been tempered by wisdom.

My name is Carmela Rosselli. I am of Italian extraction, five-and-twenty years of age last December, and already—yes, I confess it freely—I was utterly world-weary. I am an only child. My mother, one of the Burnetts of Washington, married Romolo Annibale, Marchese di Pistoja, an impecunious member of the Florentine aristocracy, and after a childhood at Washington I was sent to the Convent of San Paolo della Croce at Florence to obtain my education. My mother’s money enabled the Marchese to live in the reckless style befitting a gentleman of the Tuscan nobility, but, unfortunately for me, both my parents died when I was fifteen and left me in the care of a second cousin, a woman but a few years older [9]than myself; kind-hearted, everything that was most American and womanly, and—everything most devoted to me.

Thus it was that at the age of eighteen I received the maternal kiss of the grave-eyed Mother Superior, Suor Maria, and all the good sisters in turn, and returned to Washington accompanied by my guardian, Ulrica Yorke.

Like myself, Ulrica was wealthy and, being smart and good-looking, did not want for admirers. Together we lived for several years amid that society, diplomatic and otherwise, which circles around the White House, until one rather dull afternoon in the fall she, Ulrica, made a most welcome suggestion:

“Carmela, I am ruined morally and physically. I feel that I want a complete change.”

I suggested New York or Florida for the winter.

“No,” she answered, “I feel that I must build up my constitution as well as my spirits. Europe is the only place,—say London for a month, Paris, Monte Carlo for January, then Rome till after Easter.”

“To Europe!” I gasped.

[10]“Why not?” she inquired. “You have money,—what there is left of it,—and we may just as well go to Europe for a year and enjoy ourselves as vegetate here.”

“You are tired of Guy?” I observed.

She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, pursed her lips, and contemplated her rings.

“He has become too serious,” she said simply.

“And you want to escape him?” I remarked. “Do you know, Ulrica, that I really believe he loves you?”

“Well, and if he does?”

“I thought you told me only a couple of months ago that he was the best looking man in Washington, and that you had utterly lost your heart to him?”

She laughed.

“I’ve lost it so many times that I began to believe that I don’t possess that very useful portion of the human anatomy. But,” she added, “you pity him, eh? My dear Carmela, you should never pity a man. None of them is really worth sympathy. Nineteen out of every twenty are ready to declare love to any good-looking woman with money. Remember your dearest Ernest.”

[11]Mention of that name caused me a twinge.

“I have forgotten him!” I cried hotly. “I have forgiven—all is of the past!”

She laughed again.

“And you will go to Europe with me?” she said. “You will go to commence life afresh? What a funny thing life is, isn’t it?”

I responded in the affirmative. Truth to tell, I was glad of that opportunity to escape from scenes which daily reminded me of the man whom I loved. Ulrica knew it, but she was careful to avoid all further mention of the grief that was wearing out my heart.

We sailed from New York, duly landed in Liverpool a week later, and the same night found ourselves at the Hotel Cecil in London.

I knew little of the English metropolis, but we discovered some friends of Ulrica’s living out at South Kensington, and the month we passed in the city of smoke and fog—for it was November—was quite the reverse of dreary. I had always believed London to be a sad second edition of New York, but was agreeably surprised at the many nice people we met in the circle into which Ulrica’s friends introduced us.

[12]In continuation of our pilgrimage we went to Paris, and after a month there went South.

We were in the salon of the Grand Hotel at Nice on the night of our arrival when suddenly someone uttered my name. We both turned quickly, and to our surprise saw two men we knew quite well in Washington standing before us. One was Reginald Thorne, a dark-haired, more than usually good-looking youth of about twenty-two or so, while the other was Gerald Keppel, a thin, fair-mustached young man some seven years his senior, son of old Benjamin Keppel, the well-known Pittsburg millionaire. Gerald was an old friend, but the former I knew but slightly, having met him once or twice at dances, for in Washington he was among the chief of the eligibles.

“Why, my dear Miss Rosselli!” he cried enthusiastically as we shook hands, “I’m so awfully glad to meet you. I had no idea you were here. Gerald was here dining with me, and we caught sight of you through the glass doors.”

“Then you’re staying here?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Gerald’s staying with his gov’nor. He has a villa out at Fabron. Have you been here long?”

[13]“We’ve arrived in Nice to-day,” interposed Ulrica, “and we haven’t found a single soul we knew until now. I feel sure you’ll take pity upon our loneliness, Mr. Thorne, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he laughed. “I suppose you go to Monte?”

“You men think of nothing but roulette and dinners at the Paris,” she responded reproachfully, adding: “But after all, should we be worse if we had no soul for gambling? Have you had any luck this season?”

“Can’t complain,” he smiled. “I’ve been staying over there ten days or so. Gerald has had quite a run of good fortune. The other night he won the maximum on the zero-trois three times.”

“Congratulations, my dear Gerald,” exclaimed Ulrica approvingly. “You shall both take us over one day and let us try our fortune—if Mr. Thorne is agreeable?”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” answered the latter, glancing at me, and by the look he gave me I felt convinced that my suspicions aroused in Washington about a year before were not quite groundless,—in brief, that he admired me.

CHAPTER II TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE

The fault of us women is that we so often over-esteem the value of our good looks. To my mind the possession of handsome toilettes is quite as essential to a woman’s well-being and man’s contentment as are personal attractions. A woman, however beautiful she may be, loses half her charm to men’s eyes if she dresses dowdily or without taste. Nobody ever saw a really beautiful Parisienne. For the most part they are thin-nosed, thin-lipped, scraggy-necked, yellow-faced, and absolutely ugly, yet are they not, merely by reason of their chic in dress, the most attractive women in the world? I know that many will dissent from this estimate, but as my mirror tells me that I have a face more than commonly handsome, and as dozens of men have further endorsed the mute evidence of my toilet-glass, I can only confess that all my success and all my harmless flirtations have had their commencements in the attraction exercised [15]by the dainty creations of my couturière. We hear much complaining among women that there are not a sufficient number of nice men to

go round, but, after all, the woman who knows how to dress need have no lack of offers of marriage. American women can always be distinguished from the English, and it is certain that to their quiet smartness in frills and furbelows their success in the marriage mart is due.

Yes, there was no doubt that Reggie Thorne admired me. I had suspected it on the night when we had waltzed together at the Pendymans’ and afterwards gossiped together over ices, but with a woman dance-flirtations are soon forgotten, and, truth to tell, I had forgotten him until our sudden and unexpected meeting.

“What awfully good luck we’ve met Gerald and Reggie,” Ulrica said when half-an-hour later we were seated together in the privacy of our sitting-room. “Gerald, poor boy, was always a bit gone on me in Washington, and as for Reggie—well, he’ll make an excellent cavalier for you. Even if Mother Grundy is dead and buried, it isn’t very respectable to be constantly trotting over to Monte Carlo without male escort.”

[16]“You mean that they’ll be a couple of useful males—eh?”

“Certainly. Their advent is quite providential. Some of Gerald’s luck at the table may be reflected upon us. I should dearly like to make my expenses at Monte.”

“So should I.”

“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t,” she went on confidently. “I know quite a lot of people who’ve won enough to pay for the whole trip to Europe.”

“Reggie has money, hasn’t he?”

“Of course. The old man was on Wall Street and died very comfortably off. All of it went to Reggie, with an annuity to his mother. Of course, he’s spent a good deal since. A man doesn’t live in Washington as he does, drive tandem, and all that sort of thing on nothing a year.”

“They used to say that Gerald Keppel hadn’t a dollar only what the old man allowed him monthly—and a most niggardly allowance, I’ve heard.”

“That’s quite possible, my dear Carmela,” she answered. “But one’s position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire. Old [17]Benjamin is eccentric. I’ve met the old buffer several times. He’s addicted to my pet abomination in a man—paper collars.”

“Then you’ll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?” I laughed.

“Yes. I’m self-sacrificing, am I not?”

She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel, and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of Delight which somebody has suggested might be known by the Sign of the Seven Sins.

Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type, pretty, with soft, wavy chestnut hair, and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine, yet beneath her corsets, I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change, and flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them. Neither, indeed, could I, for, living with her ever since my convent days, I had imbibed her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks of nerves.

A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the Grand Hotel, we went over to [18]Monte Carlo by the two o’clock “yellow” express.

Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera—that stretch of azure sky, azure sea, of golden coasts, purple hills fringed with olive and pine, rose and geranium running riot over hedge and hollow, oranges golden and flowers white upon the same branch. The pale violet of the Alps answers the violet of the valleys; white and gold marguerites spangle the hill-side where the old rock village of Eze is perched above; white and gold villas dot the wayside, and white and gold are the decoration of that Casino wherein is centred all the human vices—painted tastefully in white and gold—The Sign of the Seven Sins.

When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smelling salle-de-jeu where the croupiers were crying in those mechanical, strident tones “Messieurs, faites vos jeux!” and uttering in warning voice “Rien ne va plus!” I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those grabbing crowds of smartly dressed people grouped around the tables? Were they actually civilized beings—beings who had loved, suffered, and lived, as I had loved, suffered, and lived?

[19]How beautiful it was outside in that gay little Place with the red Hungarian band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and half the grande monde of Europe lounging about and chattering. How enchanting was the grim Dog’s Head as a fitting background in dark purple against the winter sunset, the old bronze Grimaldi rock rising sheer from the turquoise sea surmounted by the white tower of Monaco and the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right Villefranche and San Juan shining in topaz and amber,—the Esterels as a necklace of radiant jewels,—while to the left Bordighera was lying at the base of its neck, like a pearl at a fair throat. And beyond there was Italy—my own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day was tempered by the thick curtains and the clink of gold mingled with the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell.

Some years ago—ah! now I am looking back: Ulrica is not at fault this time. No, I must not think. I have promised myself in writing this narrative not to think, but to try and forget all [20]past unhappiness. Try. Ah! would that I could calm my soul—steep it in a draught of thoughtlessness, such that oblivion would come.

It is terrible to think how a woman can suffer and yet live. What a blessing it is that the world cannot read a woman’s heart! Men may look upon our faces, but they cannot read the truth. Even though our hearts may be breaking we may wear a smile; we can fold our sorrows as a bird folds its wings, for they are part of our physical being; we can hide our grief so completely that none can know the burden upon us. Endurance, resistance, patience, suffering, all are, alas! a woman’s heritage. Even in the few years I have lived I have had my share of them all.

I stood bewildered, watching the revolving red and black roulette-wheel and the eager crowd of faces around it.

“Vingt! Rouge, pair et passé!” the croupier cried, and a couple of louis which Ulrica had placed on the last dozen were swept away with the silver, notes, and gold to swell the bank.

I thought of my secret grief. I thought of Ernest Cameron and pursed my lips. The old Tuscan proverb which the nuns in Florence had [21]taught me so long ago was very true, Amore non è senza amaro.

The millionaire’s son at my elbow was explaining to me how the game was played, but I was paying no attention. I only remembered the man I had once loved—the man whose slave I was—the man whom I had forgiven, even though he had left me so cruelly.

Only three things could make life to me worth living—the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips.

But they could never be, alas! we were parted for ever—for ever.

“Now, play this time,” I heard Reggie beside me exclaim.

“Where?” I inquired mechanically, his voice awakening me to a sense of my surroundings.

“On the line, there—between the numbers 9 and 12.”

I took a louis from my purse and with the rake carelessly pushed it upon the line he had indicated. Then I turned to talk with Gerald.

“Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier.

A hundred necks were craned to watch the result.

[22]The ball fell with a final click into one of the little spaces upon the wheel.

“Neuf! Rouge, impair et manque!”

“You’ve won, my dear!” cried Ulrica excitedly, and in a few moments Reggie, who raked up my winnings, gave me quite a handful of gold.

“There now,” he said, laughing, “you’ve made your first coup. Try again.”

I crammed the gold into my purse, but it would not hold it all. The three louis which would not go in I held in indecision in my hand.

“Play on the treize-dix-huit this time!” urged Reggie, and I obeyed him blindly.

The number 18 came up, therefore I again received another little handful of gold. I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my direction, and to me the excitement of winning was an entirely new sensation.

Ulrica fancied the last dozen, and I placed five louis upon it, winning a third time. Having won eight hundred francs in three turns of the wheel, I began to think roulette not such wearying fun as I had once believed it to be.

I wanted to continue playing, but the others prevented me. They knew too well that the [23]bank at Monte Carlo only lends its money to the players.

With Reggie at my side I went out and strolled through those beautiful gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and afterwards sat on the terrace of the Café de Paris and enjoyed the brilliant sundown.

CHAPTER III IS A MYSTERY

I was left alone with Reggie, for Ulrica had taken Gerald in to the orchestral concert.

“What awfully good luck you had!” he observed after we had been chatting some time. “If you’d had the maximum on each time you’d have won about four thousand dollars.”

“There are a good many if’s in gambling,” I remarked. “I’ve never had any luck before in gambles at bazaars and such-like places.”

“When you do have luck, follow it, is my motto,” he laughed. “I should have advised you to continue playing to-day, only I thought it might annoy Ulrica,” and he raised his glass to his lips.

“But I might have lost all that I won,” I remarked. “No, I prefer to keep it. I’d like to be unique among the people and go away with some of the bank’s money. I intend to keep what I have, and not to play again.”

“Never?”

“Never!”

[25]“My dear Miss Rosselli, that’s what everyone says here,” he laughed. “But before you’ve been on the Riviera long you’ll discover that this is no place for good resolutions. Gambling is one of the sweetest and most insidious of vices, and has the additional attraction of being thought chic. Look at the crowd of women here! Why, every one of them play. If they didn’t, others would believe them to be hard up—and poverty, you know, is distinctly bad form here. Even if a woman hasn’t sufficient to pay her hotel bill she must wear the regulation gold chatelaine,—the gold chain-purse,—if it only contains a couple of pieces of a hundred sous. And she must play. Fortunes have been won with only five francs.”

“Such stories, I fear, are only fairy tales,” I said incredulously.

“No. At least one of them is not,” he answered, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips and looking at me amusedly. “I was playing here one night last March when a young French girl won three hundred thousand francs after having first lost all she had. She borrowed a five-franc piece from a friend and with it broke the bank. I was [26]present at the table where it occurred. Fortune is very fickle here.”

“So it seems,” I said. “That is why I intend to keep what I’ve won.”

“You might have a necklace made of the louis,” he said. “Many women wear coins won at Monte Carlo attached to their bangles.”