Listerdale Mystery - Agatha Christie [84]
‘We must send for a doctor,’ said Cowan.
Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.
‘The doctor is already on his way, he will do all that can be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, but never never will Roscari be able to sing tonight.’
‘I shall never sing again, I am dying,’ groaned the Italian.
‘No, no, you are not dying,’ said Paula. ‘It is but an indigestion, but all the same, impossible that you should sing.’
‘I have been poisoned.’
‘Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt,’ said Paula. ‘Stay with him, Elise, till the doctor comes.’
The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.
‘What are we to do?’ she demanded.
Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone from London to take Roscari’s place. Lady Rustonbury, who had just been informed of her guest’s illness, came hurrying along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like Paula Nazorkoff’s, was the success of Tosca.
‘If there were only someone near at hand,’ groaned the prima donna.
‘Ah!’ Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. ‘Of course! Bréon.’
‘Bréon?’
‘Yes, Edouard Bréon, you know, the famous French baritone. He lives near here, there was a picture of his house in this week’s Country Homes. He is the very man.’
‘It is an answer from heaven,’ cried Nazorkoff. ‘Bréon as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest rôles. But he has retired, has he not?’
‘I will get him,’ said Lady Rustonbury. ‘Leave it to me.’
And being a woman of decision, she straightaway ordered out the Hispano Suiza. Ten minutes later, M. Edouard Bréon’s country retreat was invaded by an agitated countess. Lady Rustonbury, once she had made her mind up, was a very determined woman, and doubtless M. Bréon realized that there was nothing for it but to submit. Himself a man of very humble origin, he had climbed to the top of his profession, and had consorted on equal terms with dukes and princes, and the fact never failed to gratify him. Yet, since his retirement to this old-world English spot, he had known discontent. He missed the life of adulation and applause, and the English county had not been as prompt to recognize him as he thought they should have been. So he was greatly flattered and charmed by Lady Rustonbury’s request.
‘I will do my poor best,’ he said, smiling. ‘As you know, I have not sung in public for a long time now. I do not even take pupils, only one or two as a great favour. But there–since Signor Roscari is unfortunately indisposed–’
‘It was a terrible blow,’ said Lady Rustonbury.
‘Not that he is really a singer,’ said Bréon.
He told her at some length why this was so. There had been, it seemed, no baritone of distinction since Edouard Bréon retired.
‘Mme Nazorkoff is singing “Tosca”,’ said Lady Rustonbury. ‘You know her, I dare say?’
‘I have never met her,’ said Bréon. ‘I heard her sing once in New York. A great artist–she has a sense of drama.’
Lady Rustonbury felt relieved–one never knew with these singers–they had such queer jealousies and antipathies.
She re-entered the hall at the castle some twenty minutes later waving a triumphant hand.
‘I have got him,’ she cried, laughing. ‘Dear M. Bréon has really been too kind, I shall never forget it.’
Everyone crowded round the Frenchman, and their gratitude and appreciation were as incense to him. Edouard Bréon, though now close on sixty, was still a fine-looking man, big and dark, with a magnetic personality.
‘Let me see,’ said Lady Rustonbury. ‘Where is Madame–? Oh! there she is.’
Paula Nazorkoff had taken no part in the general welcoming of the Frenchman. She had remained quietly sitting in a high oak chair in the shadow of the fireplace. There was, of course, no fire, for the evening was a warm one and the singer was slowly fanning herself with an immense palm-leaf fan. So aloof and detached was she, that Lady Rustonbury feared she had taken offence.
‘M. Bréon.’ She led him up to the singer. ‘You have never yet met Madame Nazorkoff,