Chapter XV: Act II

The burning-eyed visitor—An old favorite—Amateur theatricals—“Light
the candles!”—In which Julien De Medici reveals himself as an
effective playwright.

They had been sitting for fifteen minutes in silence. De Medici finally spoke. He had grown nervous and catlike, his eyes furtively caressing the curtains of the room, his ears strained for sounds.

“She should be here now,” he said. “It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk.”

Dr. Lytton grunted and said nothing. A savage light was in his eyes.

“Are you sure Florence will sleep?” De Medici pursued.

The doctor disdained answering.

“Perhaps it’s been unfair of me,” De Medici smiled tiredly, “but I’ve been holding something from you. A woman entered my bedroom last night just about the time you captured your Floria in Rollo—and tried to kill me. She caught me in the arm with a dagger. I fainted, and when I awoke I found a crucifix on my chest and a candle burning at my head.”

The scientist’s eyes widened. He nodded as if weighing this evidence and then remarked curtly:

“I can only say, Julien, that you’ve gone mad. You’ve been the victim of hallucinations. The Floria image has been in your mind so long and so vividly that it finally materialized into an optical illusion.”

“There was a wound—and blood,” muttered De Medici.

“A self-inflicted attack,” Dr. Lytton answered curtly. “How long are you going to wait for this visitor of yours?”

De Medici had given instructions to his man, Harding, to admit any caller without hesitation. Listening to the doctor, he stiffened. He had heard an outer door open.

“Sh-h,” he murmured.

There was a long pause. Dr. Lytton followed the fixed gaze of his friend, and both men sat watching the door that opened into the curtained room. Slowly De Medici rose. The door was opening.

A tall, burning-eyed creature in a preposterous dress that dropped a silken train behind her stood on the threshold. Dr. Lytton had moved excitedly.

“Quiet!” De Medici whispered, seizing his arm. “Here is Floria.”

The woman was advancing slowly into the room. It was Jane, the housekeeper, in a masquerade. Her eyes were alive with mania. The hollow cheeks were crazily rouged. The awkward body and the skinny hands had become curiously graceful. Behind the crazed make-believe of the creature loomed a startling personality. Pride, terror and strength mingled in the flashing, charcoaled eyes. She continued to move gracefully toward the two men. In the center of the room she paused. Looking about her, she spoke in a vibrant, throaty voice that shot a thrill through her two intent listeners.

“I conjure you,” she cried, “save him. I have come to you with my heart in my hand.”

Her eyes slowly focused upon De Medici. He was standing in front of her, regarding her with a puzzled attentiveness.

“You will save him, Baron. You must. You alone can do that. See how I have humbled myself and come to you.”

De Medici’s face lighted. He became suddenly alive.

“Quick, doctor. In the kitchen,” he whispered. “Bring some plates and a bottle. Put them on the table here.”

Dr. Lytton, his previous indignation vanished, slipped from the room. A vague and exciting understanding had come to him. De Medici cleared the table hastily and lighted the candlesticks. As he did, his fingers snapped the electric switch and the room dropped into a yellow shadowed darkness. Dr. Lytton returned with his arms loaded.

“Set the table as if for a meal,” murmured De Medici, his eyes holding the stare of the woman, “and bring a knife. A long knife.”

The woman, oblivious to these maneuvers, had begun to talk once more.

“Name your price, then, Baron,” she intoned.

“Hurry,” De Medici whispered to the scientist, “and leave the rest to me. I’ll take the part. I know it well.”

He turned to the woman, his figure become polite, leering, his hand extended.

“Ah, Lady Floria,” he smiled at her, “venal my enemies call me. But remember, I do not sell myself for money. If I must betray my honor”—he paused to laugh—“I insist upon choosing my payment.”

He advanced toward the woman, his manner becoming unctuous and caressing.

“You have scorned and braved me, Lady Floria,” he spoke, “yet your beauty has kept me enslaved. I’ve watched you clinging to your lover like an amorous tigress and I vowed that you would be mine some day.”

He paused and waited. The woman’s eyes had taken fire. Her head flung itself back in a superb gesture. Her voice came throatily and distinctly.

“No. I would rather kill myself.”

For an instant De Medici beamed with delight. Then again the unctuous, leering manner returned.

“You forget,” he cried, “you forget I hold your Mario’s life in pawn for yours, Tosca.”

She nodded regally.

“And do you think, Baron Scarpia, that I would contract so hideous a payment with you?”

De Medici, in search of his lines for a moment, hesitated and then cried out:

“How you detest me!”

The Tosca facing him laughed.

“I do,” she answered, “with my soul and body I loathe you.”

“Ah, ’tis thus I love you most,” he spoke.

Dr. Lytton, eyeing the incredible make-believe for a moment, had become busy. The drift of the strange scene had penetrated his thought. His hands had cleared the table and arranged the plates and bottles brought from the kitchen. Carefully he laid the knife on the edge nearest the woman. De Medici, seizing the swing of the lines he had evidently once known, fired the antiquated Sardou speech at the woman, remembering and improvising as he went.

“Spolletta, pay attention.” He was addressing imaginary actors. “I have changed my mind. The lovely Floria and I have made a bargain. Let Cavaradossi be shot. Here is the order.”

Turning to the table he scribbled with a pencil on a piece of paper.

“Here, Floria,” he said, “the passport. I have fulfilled my promise.”

“Not entirely,” came the voice behind him. “I must have a safe conduct enabling me, too, to quit the country. For I go with him.”

“After tonight?” De Medici murmured, “you will leave me?”

The voice behind him answered:

“Yes, forever.”

Dr. Lytton was watching narrowly. He saw the metamorphosed housekeeper stealthily approaching the apparently unconscious De Medici. With infinite caution her fingers reached for the knife on the table edge. She held it behind her as De Medici raised a wineglass in his hand.

“Ah, my lovely one, my beautiful Tosca, at last thou art mine.”

As he spoke the woman appeared to become transfigured. The terror of her eyes gave way to an exultant light. She stood poised for a moment, gazing at the man straightening with the wineglass in his hand. Then with a cry she raised the knife and plunged it toward De Medici.

He had been waiting, his body tensed for the moment. His hand caught the descending arm and frustrated the attack. But immediately he sank to the floor, crying hoarsely:

“Help me, help me, I am dying.”

Dr. Lytton, who had followed the grewsome pantomime, stood motionless against the curtains. The woman approached the figure spread on the floor and remained looking down into the face of the man she had slain. Then, without removing her eyes from him, she went through the motions of washing her fingers in one of the water glasses. She stopped, and her gaze centered on the two lighted candles. A shudder passed through her.

De Medici, warily alert, watched her lift the two candlesticks from the table and lean over him. For a moment the face of the madwoman breathed against him as the candlesticks were placed one at each side of his head. She had kneeled. Tearing the crucifix that hung from her neck, she laid it upon his chest and then arose.

Actress and murderess had become merged in her eyes. She glanced wildly about the darkened and shadow-dancing room and then, with a last look at the figure on the floor, moved toward the door. She walked like one in a dreadful dream, her body moving as if impelled by a force.

De Medici, still motionless, waited till she had retreated several steps. Raising himself, he whispered quickly:

“Don’t let her get away, Hugo.”

But the woman had paused before Dr. Lytton could move. Her figure grew larger in the shadows. Her gaze had torn itself from the one on the floor. She was staring straight ahead of her. Standing in the doorway blocking her path was Florence Ballau.

The girl’s hair was down and a drowsy look was over her eyes. She stood regarding the woman in the trailing gown and then, raising her arms, stumbled forward with the cry:

“Mother ... mother.... Oh, my God!”