Photoplay (Apr - Sep 1918)

La Tosca 37 "I have letters of importance to write, so I will remain at my villa. So, until tomorrow, my sweet." He took up his interrupted work, when again there came a knocking, a thunderous fusilade this time. "Open, in the name of the King," came the command. "Open, Mario. It is I, Scarpia." The Chief of Police! Mario cast a startled glance in the direction Cesare had gone, but not daring to disobey the summons, threw open the church doors. "Cesare Angelotti has escaped from the Castle," boomed the heavy voice of Scarpia. "It is likely that he has taken refuge in the Angelotti chapel. Have you seen him?" "I?" Mario lied bravely, although his lips were pale. "I have seen no one except la belle Tosca, whom you may have met as you were coming, for she has but gone." "Search the place," was the order, and there was the tramp of heavy feet along the aisles, while Mario listened in dread, expecting every minute to hear the uproar which would tell of the discovery of the fugitive. But the dreaded summons did not come. Chapel after chapel was searched without result, and the disappointed officers came back into the main body of the church, empty handed. It must be that Cesare had escaped by some side door while La Tosca had been raging. Mario crossed himself and breathed a prayer of gratitude. The disgruntled Scarpia, going back to take a last look at the Attavanti chapel, stumbled over something that he had failed to see before. It was the fan, which Cesare in his haste had forgotten. The Chief of Police pounced upon it and his features relaxed in a grim smile. He turned to his first lieutenant, with a leer. "It would be wise to show this pretty bauble to the fair Tosca — and tell her where it was found. I warrant I can make of it a key to unlock the lips of that smug-faced Jacobite, who paints Madonnas on the church's walls. For he knows more than he has told." That night a great fete was to b given at the Farnese Palace, to celebrate the victory of Genera One of her little hands lay like a white flower on the damask of the table cover. Scarpia held the other, tightly in his own. Floria shuddered, but she did not move. Melas over Napoleon. There La Tosca was to sing and there the wily Scarpia went with Lis trophy of the fan. During a lull in the festivities, he approached her with, "See what a pretty bauble I discovered in a chapel of St. Andrea this afternoon." Carelessly he pulled it from his pocket. "Some fair worshiper, no doubt, is bemoaning its loss. I would I knew to whom to return it." "In St. Andrea's!" La Tosca snatched the fan. "Why, it bears the Attavanti crest." "It does, indeed." Scarpia pretended to examine the fan closely for the first time. "Its return, then, will be a small matter." Then the hideous green-eyed monster of jealousy wrapped La Tosca in its ugly folds. "Give it to me," she stammered. "I — I will return it." The Marquise Attavanti! And Mario had painted her very image in the features of the Magdalene. And he had denied that he knew her! She must have been hidden in the church at the very time of La Tosca's visit. The singer put her hand to her throat; she felt that she was choking. And what was it Mario had said, that he would spend the night in his villa. Ah that was why — "Where are you going?" asked Scarpia. "My cloak," muttered the diva. "I am ill; I cannot sing. I must leave here immediately." Scarpia knew that she would go straight to Mario, and smiled to himself in exultation. But not like this — it would arouse too much comment. "Not sing, on the eve of victory! Where is your patriotism? Would you affront your King so sorely? Wait, and I will get you a restorative." There was truth in his words. Though on the rack with jealous torture, La Tosca considered. "I will wait," she said heavily. "It can make