Tiger Cat
Page 3
than one man? And then a thought came to me, a terrible,impossible thought, so horrible that I doubted my logic. But now two andtwo were beginning to make four. Could those men be the _masters_? Theycame and bought and left--to go to the cellar and stay there!
"Oh! Donna Marchesi!" I whispered. "How about those cat-eyes? If you hada hand in this, you are not a woman. You are a tiger."
* * * * *
I thought that I understood part of it. The latest master came to herfor the key to the cellar, and then, when he once passed through thedoor he never left. She and her servants were not there to welcome methat night, because she did not know that I had a key.
The thought came to me that perhaps one of those sleeping men was GeorgeSeabrook. He and I used to play tennis together and we knew each otherlike brothers. He had a large scar on the back of his right hand; alivid star-shaped scar. With that in mind, I walked carefully fromsleeping man to sleeping man, looking at their right hands. And I founda right hand with a scar that was shaped like the one I knew so well.But that blind man, only a skin-covered skeleton, chained to a bed ofstone! That could not be my gay young tennis player, George!
The discovery nauseated me. What did it mean? What _could_ it mean? Ifthe Donna Marchesi was back of all that misery, what was her motive?
Down the long cave-like room I went. There seemed to be no end to it,though many of the columns were surrounded with empty chains. Only thosenear the door had their human flies in the trap. In the oppositedirection the rows of pillars stretched into a far oblivion. I thoughtthat at the end there was the black mouth of a tunnel, but I could notbe sure and dared not go that far to explore the truth. Then, out ofthat tunnel, I heard a voice come, a singing voice. Slipping my shoesoff, I ran back near the door and hid as best I could in a dark recess,back of a far piece of stone. I stood there in the darkness, my torchout, the handle of the revolver in my hand.
The singing grew louder and louder, and then the singer came into view.It was none other than Donna Marchesi! She carried a lantern in one handand a basket in the other. Hanging the lantern on a nail, she took thebasket and went from one sleeping man to another. With each herperformance was the same; she awakened them with a kick in the face, andthen, when they sat up crying with pain, she placed a hard roll of breadin their blind, trembling, outstretched hand. With all fed, there wassilence save for gnawing teeth breaking through the hard crusts. Thepoor devils were hungry, starving slowly to death, and how they wolfedthe bread! She laughed with animal delight as they cried for more.Standing under the lamp, a lovely devil in her decollete dress, shelaughed at them. I swear I saw her yellow eyes, dilated in thesemi-darkness!
Suddenly she gave the command,
"Up! you dogs, _up_!"
* * * * *
Like well-trained animals they rose to their feet, clumsily, but as fastas they could under the handicap of trembling limbs and heavy chains.Two were slow in obeying, and those she struck across the face with asmall whip, till they whined with pain.
They stood there in silence, twenty odd blind men, chained against asmany pillars of stone; and then the woman, standing in the middle ofthem, started to sing. It was a well-trained voice, but metallic, andher high notes had in them the cry of a wild animal. No femininesoftness there. She sang from an Italian opera, and I knew that I hadheard that song before. While she sang, her audience waited silently. Atlast she finished, and they started to applaud. Shrunken hands beatnoisily against shrunken hands.
She seemed to watch them carefully, as though she were measuring thedegree of their appreciation. One man did not satisfy her. She went overand dug into his face with long strokes of those long red nails untilhis face was red and her fingers bloody. And when she finished hersecond song that man clapped louder than any of them. He had learned hislesson.
She ended by giving them each another roll and a dipper of water. Then,lantern and basket in her hands, she walked away and disappeared downthe tunnel. The blind men, crying and cursing in their impotent rage,sank down on their stone beds.
I went to my friend, and took his hand.
"George! George Seabrook!" I whispered.
He sat up and cried, "Who calls me? Who is there?"
I told him, and he started to cry. At last he became quiet enough totalk to me. What he told me, with slight variants, was the story of allthe men there and all the men who had been there but who had died. Eachman had been master for a day or a week. Each had found the cellar doorand had come to the Donna Marchesi for the key. Some had been suspiciousand had written their thoughts on the wall of their bedroom. But one andall had, in the end, found their curiosity more than they could resistand had opened the door. On the other side they had been overpowered andchained to a pillar, and there they had remained till they died. Some ofthem lived longer than the rest. Smith of Boston had been there over twoyears, though he was coughing badly and did not think that he could lastmuch longer. Seabrook told me their names. They were the best blood ofAmerica, with three Englishmen and one Frenchman.
"And are you all blind?" I whispered, dreading the answer.
"Yes. That happens the first night we are here. She does it with hernails."
"And she comes every night?"
"Every night. She feeds us and sings to us and we applaud. When one ofus dies, she unchains the body, and throws it down a hole somewhere. Shetalks to us about that hole sometimes and brags that she is going tofill it up before she stops."
"But who is helping her?"
"I think it is the real-estate man. Of course, the old devils upstairshelp. I think that they must drug us. Some of the men say that they wentto sleep in their beds and woke, chained to their posts."
My voice trembled as I bent over and whispered in his ear, "What wouldyou do, George, if she came and sang, and you found that you were notchained? You and the other men not chained? What would you men do,George?"
"Ask them," he snarled. "Ask them, one at a time. But I know what Iwould do. I know!"
And he started to cry, because he could not do it the next second; criedfrom rage and helplessness till the tears ran from his empty sockets.
"Does she always come at the same time?"
"As far as I know. But time is nothing to us. We just wait for death."
"Are the chains locked?"
"Yes. And she must have the key. But we could file the links if only wehad files. If only each of us had a file, we could get free. Perhaps theman upstairs has a key, but I hardly think so."
"Did you write on that pretty wall upstairs, the whitewashed wall?"
"I did; I think we all did. One man wrote a sonnet to the woman, versesin her honor, telling about her beautiful eyes. He raved about that poemfor hours while he was dying. Did you ever see it on the wall?"
"I did not see it. The old people whitewash the walls before each newmaster comes."
"I thought so."
"Are you sure you would know what to do, George, if she sang to you andyou were loose?"
"Yes, we would know."
So I left him, promising an end to the matter as soon as I could arrangeit.
* * * * *
The next day saw me calling on the Donna Marchesi. I took her flowersthat time, a corsage of vivid purple and scarlet orchids. Sheentertained me in her music room and I, taking the hint, asked her tosing. Shyly, almost with reluctance, she did as I asked. She sang theselection from the Italian opera that I knew so well. I was generous inmy applause.
She smiled.
"You like to hear me sing?"
"Indeed! I want to hear you again. I could hear you daily withoutgrowing tired."
"You're nice," she purred. "Perhaps it could be arranged."
"You are too modest. You have a wonderful voice. Why not give it to theworld?"
"I sang once in public," she sighed. "It was in New York, at a privatemusical. There were many men there. Perhaps it was stage fright; myvoice broke badl
y, and the audience, especially the men, were not kind.I am not sure, but I thought that I heard some of them hiss me."
"Surely not!" I protested.
"Indeed, so. But no man has hissed my singing since then."
"I hope not!" I replied indignantly. "You have a wonderful voice, and,when I applauded you, I was sincere. By the way, may I change my mindand ask for the key to the door in the cellar?"
"Do you want it, really want it, my friend?"
"I am sure I do. I may never use it, but it will please me to have it.Little things in life make me happy, and this key is a little thing."
"Then you shall have it. Will you do me a favor? Wait till Sunday to useit. Today is Friday, and you will not have to wait many hours."
"It will be a pleasure to do as you desire," I replied, kissing herhand.