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. 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 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.
"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."
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.
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?"
"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.
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