CHAPTER I IS PURELY PERSONAL

No. I dare not reveal anything here, lest I may be misjudged.

The narrative is, to say the least, a strange one; so strange, indeed, that had I not been one of the actual persons concerned in it I would never have believed such things were possible.

Yet these chapters of an eventful personal history, remarkable though they may appear, nevertheless form an unusual story—a combination of circumstances which will be found startling and curious, idyllic and tragic.

Reader, I would confess all, if I dared, but each of us has a skeleton in the cupboard, both you and I, for alas! I am no exception to the general rule prevailing among women.

If compelled by a natural instinct to suppress one single fact, I may add that it has little or nothing to do with the circumstances here related. It concerns only myself, and no woman cares to supply food for gossips at her own expense.

To be brief, it is my intention to narrate plainly and straightforwardly what occurred, while hoping that all who read may approach my story with a perfectly open mind, and afterwards judge me fairly, impartially, and without the prejudice likely to be entertained against one whose shortcomings are many, and whose actions have perhaps not always been tempered by wisdom.

My name is Carmela Rosselli. I am English, of Italian extraction, five-and-twenty years of age, and for many years—yes, I confess it freely—I have been utterly world-weary. I am an only child. My mother, one of the Yorkshire Burnetts, married Romolo Annibale, Marchese Rosselli, an impecunious member of the Florentine aristocracy, and after a childhood passed in Venice I was sent to the Convent of San Paolo della Croce, in the Val d'Ema, near Florence, to obtain my education. My mother's money enabled the Marchese to live in the reckless style customary to 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 than myself—kind-hearted, everything that was most English and womanly, and in all respects truly 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 of all the good sisters in turn, and then travelled to London, accompanied by my guardian, Ulrica Yorke.

Like myself, Ulrica was wealthy; and because she was very smart and good-looking she did not want for admirers. We lived together at Queen's Gate for several years, amid that society which circles around Kensington Church, until one rather dull afternoon in autumn Ulrica made a most welcome suggestion.

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

I suggested Biarritz or Davos for the winter,

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

"To Monte Carlo!" I gasped.

"Why not?" she inquired. "You have money, and we may just as well go abroad for a year to 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 a little too serious," she said simply.

"And you want to escape him?" I remarked. "Do you know, Ulrica, I believe he really 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 London, and that you had utterly lost your heart to him."

She laughed.

"I've lost it so many times that I begin to believe I don't nowadays 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. Not one 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."

Mention of that name caused me a twinge.

"I have forgotten him!" I cried hotly. "I have forgiven—all that belongs to the past."

She laughed again.

"And you will go on the Continent with me?" she asked. "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 very glad of that opportunity to escape from the eternal shopping in the High Street and the round of Kensington life, which daily reminded me of the man whom I had loved. Ulrica knew it, but she was careful to avoid all further mention of the grief that was wearing out my heart.

At the outset of our pilgrimage to the South of Europe we went to Paris. In the gay city two women with money and without encumbrances can have a really good time. We stayed at the "Chatham," a hotel much resorted to by our compatriots, and met there quite a lot of people we knew, including several rather nice men whom we had known in London, and who appeared to consider it their duty to show us the sights, many of which we had seen before.

Need I describe them? I think not. Those who read these lines probably know them all, from that sorry exhibition of terpsichorean art in the elephant at the Red Windmill down to the so-called cabarets artistiques of the Montmartre, "Heaven," "Hell," and the other places.

Each evening we dined at six, and went forth pleasure-seeking, sometimes unattended, and at others with our friends. We were catholic in our tastes. We saw La Bohême at the Opera, and attended a ball at the Bullier; we strolled along the carpeted promenade of Aspasia at the Folies Bergères, and laughed at the quadrilles at the Casino, and at that resort of the little work-girls, the Moulin la Galette; we listened to the cadence of Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful voice, and to the patter of the revue at La Scala; we watched the dancing of La Belle Otero and the statuesque poses of Degaby. Truly, we had our fill of variety theatres.

In common, too, with the foreigner who goes to "see life" in Paris, we did the round of the restaurants—from supper at the Cafê de Paris, or the Cafê Américain, to the humble two-franc dinner at Léon's in the Rue St. Honoré, or the one-franc-fifty lunch at Gazal's in the Place du Théâtre Français. We had our meal, too, one evening at that restaurant which is seldom even mentioned in respectable circles, the "Rat Mort," in the Place Pigalle. Yes, with money one is seldom triste in Paris, and I was really sorry when, in the last week of the year, after Felicita had packed our trunks, we set out for the Riviera.

Travelling on those abominable gridirons which on the Continent are called railways, is absolutely disgusting after our own English lines, with their dining-cars and other comforts. Of all the railways that intersect the Continent, the P.L.M., which has a monopoly to the Mediterranean, is the most inconvenient, disobliging, and completely abominable. To obtain the smallest comfort on the eighteen-hour journey between Paris and Nice, an addition of three pounds is charged upon the first-class fare, and that for a single night in a third-rate sleeping-car! Ulrica said it was termed the train de luxe only because it looks swagger to travel by it. We occupied a couple of berths in it, but agreed that the additional three pounds were ill-spent indeed, for the badly-cooked food was absurdly dear.

Moreover, as the water for toilet purposes gave out before reaching Lyons, we had to buy bottles of mineral water, and perform our ablutions in a mixture of Vichy Celestins and eau-de-cologne. It was remarked by an old and apparently experienced traveller that the water in the wagons lits is purposely scanty in order to increase the takings of the restaurant cars; and I certainly believed him.

For a woman young in years I have had considerable experience of European railways, from the crawling Midi of France to the lightning Nord; but for dirt and dearness, commend me to the great highway to the Riviera. To take a small trunk from Paris to Nice costs more than the fare of one's maid; while to those who do not pay for the train of luxury, but travel in the ordinary padded horse-boxes, the journey means a couple of days of suffocation and semi-starvation.

"My dear Carmela," said Ulrica, while we were on the journey, "I've thought of a plan. Why not go to some cheap hotel, or even pension at Nice, and play at Monte Carlo with the money we save?"

I had never seen the far-famed Monte Carlo, but as the idea of economy seemed an excellent one, I at once endorsed her suggestion, and that same night we found ourselves at one of those pensions which flourish so amazingly well at Nice.