‘Or gli perdono!’ (‘Now I forgive him!’)
The soft death tune began as Tosca set about her ceremonial, placing the candles each side of his head, the crucifix on his breast, her last pause in the doorway looking back, the roll of distant drums, and the curtain fell.
This time real enthusiasm broke out in the audience, but it was short-lived. Someone hurried out from behind the wings, and spoke to Lord Rustonbury. He rose, and after a minute or two’s consultation, turned and beckoned to Sir Donald Calthorp, who was an eminent physician. Almost immediately the truth spread through the audience. Something had happened, an accident, someone was badly hurt. One of the singers appeared before the curtain and explained that M Bréon had unfortunately met with an accident – the opera could not proceed. Again the rumour went round, Bréon had been stabbed, Nazorkoff had lost her head, she had lived in her part so completely that she had actually stabbed the man who was acting with her. Lord Leconmere, talking to his ambassador friend, felt a touch on his arm, and turned to look into Blanche Amery’s eyes.
‘It was not an accident,’ the girl was saying. ‘I am sure it was not an accident. Didn’t you hear, just before dinner, that story he was telling about the girl in Italy? That girl was Paula Nazorkoff. Just after, she said something about being Russian, and I saw Mr Cowan look amazed. She may have taken a Russian name, but he knows well enough that she is Italian.’
‘My dear Blanche,’ said Lord Leconmere.
‘I tell you I am sure of it. She had a picture paper in her bedroom opened at the page showing M Bréon in his English country home. She knew before she came down here. I believe she gave something to that poor little Italian man to make him ill.’
‘But why?’ cried Lord Leconmere. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t you see? It’s the story of Tosca all over again. He wanted her in Italy, but she was faithful to her lover, and she went to him to try to get him to save her lover, and he pretended he would. Instead he let him die. And now at last her revenge has come. Didn’t you hear the way she hissed “I am Tosca”? And I saw Bréon’s face when she said it, he knew then – he recognized her!’
In her dressing-room, Paula Nazorkoff sat motionless, a white ermine cloak held round her. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ said the prima donna.
Elise entered. She was sobbing.
‘Madame, Madame, he is dead! And –’
‘Yes?’
‘Madame, how can I tell you? There are two gentlemen of the police there, they want to speak to you.’
Paula Nazorkoff rose to her full height.
‘I will go to them,’ she said quietly.
She untwisted a collar of pearls from her neck, and put them into the French girl’s hands.
‘Those are for you, Elise, you have been a good girl. I shall not need them now where I am going. You understand, Elise? I shall not sing “Tosca” again.’
She stood a moment by the door, her eyes sweeping over the dressing-room, as though she looked back over the past thirty years of her career.
Then softly between her teeth, she murmured the last line of another opera:
‘La commedia e finita! ’
Chapter 21
The Last Séance
‘The Last Séance’ was first published in the USA in Ghost Stories magazine, November 1926, and as ‘The Stolen Ghost’ in The Sovereign Magazine, March 1927.
Raoul Daubreuil crossed the Seine humming a little tune to himself. He was a good-looking young Frenchman of about thirty-two, with a fresh-coloured face and a little black moustache. By profession he was an engineer. In due course he reached the Cardonet and turned in at the door of No. 17. The concierge looked out from her lair and gave him a grudging ‘Good morning,’ to which he replied cheerfully. Then he mounted the stairs to the apartment on the third floor. As he stood there waiting for his ring at the bell to be answered he hummed once more his little tune. Raoul Daubreuil was feeling particularly cheerful this morning. The door was opened by an elderly Frenchwoman whose wrinkled face broke into smiles when she saw who the visitor was.
‘Good morning, Monsieur.’
‘Good morning, Elise,’ said Raoul.
He passed into the vestibule, pulling off his gloves as he did so. ‘Madame expects me, does she not?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Ah, yes, indeed, Monsieur.’
Elise shut the front door and turned towards him. ‘If Monsieur will pass into the little salon Madame will be with him in a few minutes. At the moment she reposes herself.’
Raoul looked up sharply. ‘Is she not well?’
‘Well!’
Elise gave a snort. She passed in front of Raoul and opened the door of the little salon for him. He went in and she followed him.
‘Well!’ she continued. ‘How could she be well, poor lamb? Séances, séances, and always séances! It is not right – not natural, not what the good God intended for us. For me, I say straight out, it is trafficking with the devil.’
Raoul patted her on the shoulder reassuringly. ‘There, there, Elise,’ he said soothingly, ‘do not excite yourself, and do not be too ready to see the devil in everything you do not understand.’
Elise shook her head doubtingly.
‘Ah, well,’ she grumbled under her breath, ‘Monsieur may say what he pleases, I don’t like it. Look at Madame, every day she gets whiter and thinner, and the headaches!’
She held up her hands. ‘Ah, no, it is not good, all this spirit business. Spirits indeed! All the good spirits are in Paradise, and the others are in Purgatory.’
‘Your view of the life after death is refeshingly simple, Elise,’ said Raoul as he dropped into the chair.
The old woman drew herself up. ‘I am a good Catholic, Monsieur.’
She crossed herself, went towards the door, then paused, her hand on the handle.
‘Afterwards when you are married, Monsieur,’ she said pleadingly, ‘it will not continue – all this?’
Raoul smiled at her affectionately. ‘You are a good faithful creature, Elise,’ he said, ‘and devoted to your mistress. Have no fear, once she is my wife, all this “spirit business” as you call it, will cease. For Madame Daubreuil there will be no more séances.’
Elise’s face broke into smiles. ‘Is it true what you say?’ she asked eagerly.
The other nodded gravely. ‘Yes,’ he said, speaking almost more to himself than to her. ‘Yes, all this must end. Simone has a wonderful gift and she has used it freely, but now she has done her part. As you have justly observed, Elise, day by day she gets whiter and thinner. The life of a medium is a particularly trying and arduous one, involving a terrible nervous strain. All the same, Elise, your mistress is the most wonderful medium in Paris – more, in France. People from all over the world come to her because they know that with her there is no trickery, no deceit.’
Elise gave a snort of contempt. ‘Deceit! Ah, no, indeed. Madame could not deceive a newborn babe if she tried.’
‘She is an angel,’ said the young Frenchman with fervour. ‘And I – I shall do everything a man can to make her happy. You believe that?’
Elise drew herself up, and spoke with a certain simple dignity. ‘I have served Madame for many years, Monsieur. With all respect I may say that I love her. If I did not believe that you adored her as she deserves to be adored – eh bien, Monsieur! I should be willing to tear you limb from limb.’
Raoul laughed. ‘Bravo, Elise! you are a faithful friend, and you must approve of me now that I have told you Madame is going to give up the spirits.’
He expected the old woman to receive this pleasantry with a laugh, but somewhat to his surprise she remained grave.
‘Supposing, Monsieur,’ she said hesitatingly, ‘the spirits will not give her up?’
Raoul stared at her.
‘Eh! What do you mean?’
‘I said,’ repeated Elise, ‘supposing the spirits will not give her up?’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in
the spirits, Elise?’
‘No more I do,’ said Elise stubbornly. ‘It is foolish to believe in them. All the same –’
‘Well?’
‘It is difficult for me to explain, Monsieur. You see, me, I always thought that these mediums, as they call themselves, were just clever cheats who imposed on the poor souls who had lost their dear ones. But Madame is not like that. Madame is good. Madame is honest and –’
She lowered her voice and spoke in a tone of awe.
‘Things happen. It is no trickery, things happen, and that is why I am afraid. For I am sure of this, Monsieur, it is not right. It is against nature and le bon Dieu, and somebody will have to pay.’
Raoul got up from his chair and came and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Calm yourself, my good Elise,’ he said, smiling. ‘See, I will give you some good news. Today is the last of these séances; after today there will be no more.’
‘There is one today then?’ asked the old woman suspiciously. ‘The last, Elise, the last.’
Elise shook her head disconsolately. ‘Madame is not fit –’ she began.
But her words were interrupted, the door opened and a tall, fair woman came in. She was slender and graceful, with the face of a Botticelli Madonna. Raoul’s face lighted up, and Elise withdrew quickly and discreetly.
‘Simone!’
He took both her long, white hands in his and kissed each in turn. She murmured his name very softly.
‘Raoul, my dear one.’
Again he kissed her hands and then looked intently into her face. ‘Simone, how pale you are! Elise told me you were resting; you are not ill, my well-beloved?’
‘No, not ill –’ she hesitated.
He led her over to the sofa and sat down on it beside her. ‘But tell me then.’
The medium smiled faintly. ‘You will think me foolish,’ she murmured. ‘I? Think you foolish? Never.’