A stormy interview

When Captain Joliette entered the dressing-room of Mlle. d’ Armilly, after quitting the Count of Monte-Cristo at the Apollo Theatre on the sudden termination of the performance of “Lucrezia Borgia,” he found the prima donna lying upon a sofa and slowly recovering from the effects of her swoon. Her maid and the ladies of the company, the latter still in their stage attire, were giving her every attention. It was a strange and somewhat grotesque scene a real drama with theatrical surroundings. The blazing lights, enclosed by their wire spheres, threw a ruddy glare upon the faces of those present, making them appear weird and witch-like in their paint and powder. On chairs and tables lay Mlle. d’ Armilly’s changes of dress for the performance and her street garments, while upon a broad shelf in front of a mirror were the various mysterious articles used in her make-up rouge, grease-paint, poudre de riz, etc., together with brushes and numerous camel’s hair pencils. A basin filled with water stood on a washstand, and on the floor was the pitcher, in company with a heterogeneous collection of stage and street boots belonging to the eminent songstress. The director of the theatre was standing anxiously beside the suffering prima donna, mentally calculating the chances of her ability to appear the following night. Leon d’ Armilly was walking back and forth in the small apartment, wringing his hands and shedding tears like a woman, while at the open door lounged the tenor and baritone of the troupe, their countenances wearing the usual listless expression of veteran opera singers who, from long habit, are thoroughly accustomed to the indispositions and caprices of prima donnas and consider them as incidental to the profession.

As Captain Joliette came in, Leon ran to him and exclaimed amid his tears:

“Oh! how could you bring that odious man to your box! See how the very sight of him has affected my poor sister!”

At these words Mlle. d’ Armilly roused herself and, springing to her feet, faced the young soldier in a fit of uncontrollable rage.

“How dare you,” she cried, her eyes flashing and her voice tremulous with anger, “come here, to me, after what has occurred to-night!”

“I was not aware, Louise,” answered he, apologetically, “that you had such a terrible aversion to the Count of Monte-Cristo.”

“The Count of Monte-Cristo!” exclaimed the director. “Was he in the house this evening? What an honor!”

The irate prima donna flashed upon him a terrible glance.

“If you consider it an honor to have that monster in your theatre,” she fairly hissed, “I will sing for you no more!”

The humiliated director walked away without making a reply. He deemed it the part of wisdom not to embroil himself with an eminent artiste who was capable of bringing him in so much money, and who also was capable, he thought, of breaking her engagement if she saw fit to do so. He, therefore, left the dressing-room. The others, seeing that Mlle. d’ Armilly was evidently about to have a hot dispute with her admirer and that she was sufficiently restored to need no further care, also quitted the apartment.

When they were alone, the prima donna turned fiercely upon the Captain, exclaiming:

“And you profess to love me, too! Was it love that induced you to bring my worst enemy here to-night? It was hatred rather! Captain Joliette, you hate me!”

“You know I do not, Louise,” said the young soldier, warmly. “You know I love you to desperation!”

“Why then was the so-called Count of Monte-Cristo in your box?”

“I was not aware that you knew him; indeed, I felt convinced that he was a total stranger to you, and his conduct to-night tended to confirm that conviction. He looked at you without the slightest sign of recognition; and so far from being your enemy is he that he gave you louder and more enthusiastic applause than any other man in the entire theatre.”

“It is his art, Captain Joliette! I tell you that man is as cunning as a serpent and as remorseless as a tiger. Only this morning he sought to gain access to me, with what iniquitous motive I know not; but I returned his letter, with an answer that must have galled his pride to the quick!”

“I saw that answer,” said the Captain. “Monte-Cristo showed it to me himself at his residence, the Palazzo Costi.”

“What!” cried Mlle. d’ Armilly, with augmented anger. “You saw it, read my very words, and yet brought him to your box?”

“Listen, Louise, and be reasonable. He told me that your name seemed familiar to him and yet he could not recall where or under what circumstances he had heard it. He was astonished at the tone of your reply to his formal and, I must say, very civil note. I was sure there must be some mistake on your part, that you had confounded him with some other person. I had gone to the Palazzo Costi expressly to invite him to hear you sing, to have such a great man present and assist at your triumph! I felt proud of you, Louise, proud of you as an artiste and as a woman, and I wanted my friend of friends to share my exalted appreciation of you. Such were the reasons that induced me to bring him to my box to-night, and, surely, if I committed an error, I deserve pardon for my motives!”

“I will never pardon you, be your motives what they may!” cried Mlle. d’ Armilly, vindictively. “His presence ruined the performance and disgraced me, me, Louise d’ Armilly, in the eyes of all Rome!”

The Captain stood speechless, appalled by her fury. White with rage, her eyes flashing and her bosom heaving, she looked like some beautiful demon.

“I would have triumphed as usual had he not been here,” she continued, furiously and bitterly, “and to-morrow the Eternal City would have been at my feet, I would have been an acknowledged queen, nay, even greater than any sovereign alive, but now I have failed and am nothing! Captain Joliette, for all this you are to blame, and yet you think you deserve pardon for your motives! Why, man, you are worse than an idiot! No, I will never pardon you, never!”

She strode about the dressing-room as she spoke, her small, white hands working as if ready to tear the young soldier to pieces. Joliette watched her for an instant and then said:

“You are a singular creature, Louise, a problem that I must admit I cannot solve. What is the Count of Monte-Cristo to you that you swoon at the mere sight of him? You certainly could not have been in any way associated with his past life, have suffered from the signal vengeance he took upon his enemies years ago!”

Mlle. d’ Armilly paused suddenly in her excited walk, and, seizing the Captain by the arm with so strong a clutch that a thrill of pain shot through him, cried, menacingly:

“If you dare to mention Monte-Cristo’s fiendish vengeance to me again, I will banish you forever from my presence!”

At that moment one of the officials of the theatre appeared at the dressing-room door.

“A note for mademoiselle,” said he, bowing profoundly.

The prima donna took the missive from the man and glanced at the address upon the envelope. As she did so, she knitted her brows and cried out:

“His handwriting! Another insult! I will not read it!”

The official withdrew in confusion.

“Whose handwriting?” asked Joliette, his curiosity and jealousy simultaneously excited. Mlle. d’ Armilly had frequently referred to her numerous admirers and the letters she received from them, and the Captain naturally jumped to the conclusion that this note had been sent by some ardent Roman suitor. He considered the artiste’s exclamation and assumption of displeasure as mere artful tricks designed to deceive him.

“Whose handwriting?” repeated Mlle. d’ Armilly; scornfully. “Must I explain everything to you?”

The young man had borne all his companion in her anger had heaped upon him with comparative equanimity, but he could not bear the idea of a rival, the very thought was torture.

“Louise,” he pleaded, “let me see that letter, let me read it.”

“What! Must you needs examine my private correspondence! Captain Joliette, you are going too far! You have done enough to-night, without adding insult to injury!”

“I did not seek to injure you, Louise, God knows! Neither do I wish to insult you; but that letter I must and will read!”

“You talk as if I were already your wife and slave. Adopt another and less authoritative tone, monsieur. Captain Joliette, you are not yet my husband!”

“Would that I were and were sure of your love, Louise! The continual uncertainty in which you keep me is insupportable! You refuse to let me read that letter?”

The young man, in his turn, began to pace the dressing-room excitedly, his jealous suspicions growing stronger and stronger.

Mlle. d’ Armilly gazed at him triumphantly. She was proud of the vast influence she exercised over this brave and manly warrior. He would stand unmoved before the cannon’s mouth, but she could make him quail and tremble!

“You refuse to let me read that letter?” he repeated.

“What if I do not refuse?” said she, in a softer tone.

“You will make me a very happy man!”

“Then read it, for I will not! Thus I show my contempt for its miserable and cowardly author!”

She crumpled the note in her hand and cast it on the floor. Then she placed her foot upon it.

Joliette stooped and took it from beneath her boot. He straightened out the envelope, opened it, removed the missive and read as follows:

“The Count of Monte-Cristo presents his respects to Mlle. d’ Armilly, and begs leave to express his deep regret that his presence in Captain Joliette’s box was the cause of such a grave catastrophe. He is utterly at a loss to realize why Mlle. d’ Armilly should entertain so profound an aversion for him, and why the sight of him should so seriously affect her. If Mlle. d’ Armilly would condescend to explain, he would regard it as a special favor. He trusts that Captain Joliette will in nowise be blamed for what has occurred, as that gentleman, when he invited the Count to share his box, was as thoroughly convinced as the Count himself that Mlle. d’ Armilly did not know and would not recognize him.”

As Joliette read the last lines that so completely cleared him, he could not suppress an exclamation of joy.

“Louise,” he cried, “the Count of Monte-Cristo has written to exculpate me!”

“Indeed!” replied the prima donna, contemptuously.

“Yes; he also apologizes to you and asks you to explain why the sight of him so seriously affects you.”

“He asks an explanation, does he?” cried Mlle. d’ Armilly, her anger resuming sway. “He shall never have one!”

“But you will pardon me, as you see I am altogether blameless?”

“I will hold your pardon under advisement, Captain. My action towards you will be greatly influenced by your future conduct in regard to the wretch who calls himself Monte-Cristo!”

“You surely do not wish me to cast him off, to shun him?”

“Do you prefer him to me?”

“I love you, Louise, love you better than anything or anybody else in the whole world! But I greatly esteem the Count of Monte-Cristo. There are ties between us that you do not understand.”

“I do not care to understand them. I have told you that this man is my enemy. That should be sufficient for you. My lover and my enemy cannot be friends. Choose between us!”

“Would you have me quarrel with him?”

“Quarrel with him? Yes; and not only that! I would have you fight him, kill him!”

The young man stood aghast. He was totally unprepared for this explosion, this savage, vindictive demand.

“Fight him, kill him, Louise! You cannot, you do not mean what you say!”

“Am I in the habit of using idle words?”

“Louise, Louise, I entreat you, do not impose such horrible conditions upon me!”

“Are you afraid of Monte-Cristo?”

“I am afraid of no man living, Louise; but I cannot challenge Monte-Cristo to a duel even for you!”

“Then you refuse to protect, to champion me?”

“Oh! Louise, how can you speak thus! I would gladly shed every drop of blood in my veins for you, gladly lay down my life for you, but do not ask me to lift a hand against the Count of Monte-Cristo!”

The beautiful woman looked at the energetic speaker haughtily and discontentedly. She was not a little disappointed. She had thought her influence over her suitor unbounded, but now it appeared that it had its limits. She, however, did not despair. Well knowing the wonderful fascination she possessed for men, she determined to bring all its batteries to bear upon Captain Joliette. She was bent on wreaking a terrible vengeance upon the Count of Monte-Cristo for some mysterious injury he had inflicted on her in the past, an injury in regard to which she refused to be communicative even to her accepted lover, and was resolved that Joliette should give the highest proof of his devotion to her by becoming the instrument of that vengeance.

With the shrewdness of an experienced woman of the world, she readily saw that a special effort would be required on her part to bend the gallant soldier to her will and compel him to execute her inexorable purpose. She would make that special effort and, in making it, would render herself so captivating, so enticing, so desirable that Joliette could not fail to be intoxicated with her charms and fascinations. Then under the mad sway of his blind passion, excited to the utmost, he would be ready to do anything for her, anything, even to the commission of a crime, even to shedding the blood of his dearest friend!

At this juncture Mlle. d’ Armilly, turning from the Captain as if in high displeasure, for it was an important part of her plan to assume a certain degree of coldness towards him at first, touched a bell and immediately her brother Leon and her maid appeared.

“Franchette,” she said, addressing the latter, “assist me with my street toilet. I have sufficiently recovered to return to the Hotel de France.”

Unmindful of the presence of the Captain and Leon, the designing prima donna at once began to remove the costume she had worn during the opera. The maid aided her in this operation with the outward impassibility of theatrical servants, though she imperceptibly smiled as she realized that this display of her mistress’ personal charms was made solely for the purpose of rendering the young soldier still more the slave of that artful siren.

As Mlle. d’ Armilly stood in her corset and clinging skirts of spotless white that delicately outlined her faultless shape, her fine throat, shoulders and arms displaying their glowing brilliancy, Captain Joliette gazed at her like one entranced. Never in all his life, he thought, had he looked upon a woman so thoroughly beautiful, so goddess-like. She was as perfect as a painting of Venus, and a thousand times more lovely for being alive. He held his breath as he saw her bosom palpitate and felt that he would give all he possessed in the world to call her his own, to be with her forever.

Leon seemed somewhat abashed by his sister’s proceeding and blushed like a girl, the crimson tide giving his countenance a beauty altogether feminine.

The toilet operation completed, Mlle. d’ Armilly surveyed herself triumphantly in the mirror. She was well aware that she had riveted her chains very tightly upon her lover, but, for all that, she could tell only by actual experiment if he were sufficiently under her dominion to accede to her wishes concerning the Count of Monte-Cristo. Hence she determined to make that experiment without delay, ere cool reflection had come to the dazzled warrior’s aid and enabled him to realize that a trap had been laid for him.

Quitting the mirror, she went to Captain Joliette’s side and, placing her hand on his arm, as she threw into his eyes all the magnetism of her glance, said, in a dulcet tone:

“Will you accompany me to the hotel, Captain?”

The young man joyously assented, and soon an elegant equipage was bearing him swiftly towards the prima donna’s apartments.