Toward the end of September, 1871, Count Frederick von Waldberg, alias Franz Werner, arrived in Paris and took up his quarters at a well-known hotel in the Rue de Rivoli under the name of Baron F. Wolff. He stated that he had just arrived from Japan, a country in which he claimed to have resided for over two years. As he spent his money very liberally he was taken at his word and treated with great respect and consideration at the hotel, where he soon made the acquaintance of several American and English families who proposed to spend the winter at Paris. Frederick's personal appearance had undergone such a change during the twelve months which had elapsed since he left Paris that there was not much fear of his being recognized [Pg 78] by any of his former acquaintances. He had grown taller and broader, his face was bronzed by the Indian sun, and his beard, which he had once more allowed to grow during the long sea voyage, caused him to look much older than he was in reality.
One night, some two months after his arrival at Paris, he accompanied three of his new acquaintances to the Jardin Mabille, at that time a well-known rendezvous of the jeunesse doree and of the demi-mondaines of every class.
FREDERICK AT THE JARDIN MABILLE.
He was standing near the orchestra, leaning against one of the artificial palm trees loaded with fantastically colored glass fruits, each of which contained a tiny gas jet, and was watching the gay throng of dancers as they bounded through the intricate figures of a disheveled can-can, when suddenly a woman, who was conspicuous by the enormous amount of satin, lace, and flowers which she had managed to accumulate about the lower part of her person, and by the extraordinary scantiness of her corsage, stopped in front of him, and with the tip of her satin-slippered foot delicately knocked his hat from off his head to the ground. This being by no means an unusual feat among the female habitues of Mabille, the incident did not attract much attention and no one noticed the start of surprise and consternation with which Frederick recognized in the painted creature with dyed hair his wife Rose—Countess of Waldberg.
As his hat fell to the ground, the mocking smile on Rose's face disappeared. Her features assumed a hard, stony expression; there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes, and she gave one or two convulsive little shivers, as if striving to control her feelings. Then, rapidly bending toward him, she murmured:
“Come with me, quickly. I must speak to you at once.”
Frederick, realizing that the recognition had been mutual [Pg 79] and afraid that if he made any attempt to resist she would create a disturbance and reveal his identity to all the bystanders, followed her without a word. They soon reached a part of the gardens which was comparatively deserted, and Rose led the way to a small arbor. Throwing herself down on one of the wooden benches, she crossed her arms, and, looking insolently into her husband's face, exclaimed, in a hard, rasping voice:
“Concealment is useless with me. I would have recognized you fifty years hence. If love is blind, hatred is not. I have a little account to square with you, mon cher, and you had better hear me out. I am not surprised at your look of alarm when you realized who it was that had kicked at your hat. It is unpleasant to be recognized when one has so very much to keep dark.”
“What do you mean? I do not understand you.”
“Oh, yes, you do. The newspapers have hinted at your doings in India, and a man who had made your acquaintance out there caught sight of one of your portraits in my rooms about a fortnight ago. From him—I forget his name, but he was an English captain—I heard the whole story of your connection with the murder of——”
“Hush, for Heavens sake! not so loud!” interrupted Frederick, terror-stricken. “You don't know what you are saying! If any one were to hear you!”
“What do I care if the whole world hears?” retorted Rose. “You didn't take the trouble of thinking about the world's opinion when you thrust your wife out into the street in the middle of the night and suffered her to be locked up at St. Lazarre as a common street-walker. Every dog has its day, Monsieur le Comte, and I mean to show you that I can be as cruel and relentless as you are yourself.”
“You surely will not betray me, Rose. You loved me once. I am a rich man now, and can do much for you, if [Pg 80] you will only be reasonable,” exclaimed Frederick, imploringly.
He saw that his safety depended on Rose's silence and determined to do everything that he could to propitiate her and to gain time. She looked up with something like relenting in her hard blue eyes. The mention of his wealth had evidently created some impression on her mercenary nature.
“Why, why,” laughed she, “misfortunes seem to have rendered you more reasonable, and to have softened your temper somewhat. It's more than they have done for me. I don't think that I ever had what you can call un c?ur sensible (a soft heart), but now I have none left at all. Give me money, jewels, an easy life, and I am easy enough to manage! A fig for sentiment! It's all bosh!”
Frederick, shuddering at the vulgarity displayed by the woman who was still legally his wife, and fearing that his friends, missing him, might hunt him up and insist on being introduced to his companion, touched her lightly on the shoulder, saying:
“Come, Rose, let me take you home. It is impossible to talk quietly here, and I have much to say to you. This is no place for you.”
The woman shook his hand off, with a sneer.
“How very particular you have become! This place is decidedly more pleasant than the “violon” (cell at police station) or St. Lazarre. It is true that the society which one meets at the Jardin Mabille is slightly mixed, but by far not so much as in the two places I have just mentioned. Come home with me, if you like. It will show you what you have made of me—of me, the Countess von Waldberg. I wonder if your conscience ever troubles you. You have a good deal to answer for, my dear Frederick!”
Frederick having dispatched a waiter to fetch her wraps from the cloak-room, for she had been sitting all this time [Pg 81] with bared shoulders, offered her his arm and led her away. As they were stepping forth into the street, the young man felt a slight tap on his shoulder, and, turning quickly around, found himself face to face with one of his American friends, who laughingly exclaimed:
“I see you have met your fate, my dear Wolff; I congratulate you. Don't forget that we have those two men to lunch at the hotel to-morrow.”
And with a parting “au revoir, baron,” he jumped into a fiacre, and in a loud, cheery tone of voice, bade the coachman drive home to the Hotel Kensington. A couple of minutes later, Frederick, who was greatly put out at thus having his alias and his residence made known to Rose, hailed a passing cab, and a quarter of an hour afterward arrived at her apartments in the Rue de Constantinople. They consisted of four rooms, the tawdry ornaments, greasy furniture, vulgar attempts at display and false elegance of which denoted that their tenant had sunk to the level of a third-rate cocotte.
Before Frederick left Rose that night he succeeded in exacting a promise from her that as long as he maintained her in luxury and gave her all the money she wanted, she would make no attempt to reveal his identity or to injure him in any way. He handed her a couple of thousand-franc bank-notes on his departure, and, promising to call on the following afternoon, strolled back to his hotel.
“She knows too much! She is dangerous! This will never do!” he muttered to himself, as he walked along under the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli.
He............