Diana

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER ONE

Towards the end of July, Diana received the following wire: "Rumour reports Greyhound daily hunts goddess of chase. Scherer." She laughed, then handed her reply to the waiting messenger: "Greater the certainty you will bag both. Wassilko."

She was reclining in a deck chair on the terrace of a white villa. The low roof and walls excluded the view on all sides save that which looked down upon the water. Nine o'clock had just struck, and it was at this early hour that Gregor had taken to coming. On horseback, the journey from the town needed a good hour, and under the most favourable conditions it took half an hour in the motor boat.

"Mary!"

The former nurse had joined Diana here in the early days. She was a native of these parts, and glad indeed was she to be back in the warm south, hoping never again to have to experience the bleakness of a northern clime. Her large, melancholy eyes with the earnest expression habitual to women born in southern lands, gazed forth with satisfaction upon the surrounding landscape. She now hastened to rejoin her mistress.

"Mary, do you see any sign of the boat?"

"Not yet. Here are your letters."

"They've come early."

"The telegraph boy brought them."

Diana drew the coarse linen wrapper about her knees, and sat up. She took her mail with a pout, as if swallowing some unpalatable doctor's stuff. Turning the letters over this way and that, she amused herself for a while trying to guess who the senders might be. Then throwing the others aside, she selected one from the pile because it had the town postmark and a typed address. It looked rather important, as if it might be an official message, something that needed immediate attention. The big quarto sheet bore no signature, merely the typewritten words:

"Be careful of showing your preference before the baron and his wife"

Just that; not even a full stop at the end. Diana had a flutter at her heart as she read the words "your preference" typed by a stranger's hand. Although she knew quite well that her intimacy with Gregor could not possibly remain a secret, she was loath to see a record of it on paper, typed by a fellow mortal's hand, sorted by yet another unknown person, stamped by a third, delivered by a fourth. She pushed the thing into an angle of the chair so that it might not be blown away in one of the sudden gusts of wind which frequently rose from the waters below. Chin in hand, elbow on knee, she gazed out over the shimmering expanse.

"Always this intrusion of the outer world! Always these octopus tentacles outstretched! Hardly had the blue ocean emerged from chaos and spread his great limbs to bask in the sun, sufficient unto himself, content, when ships must come sailing upon his heaving bosom, men must plumb his depths, besprinkle him with buoys, build towering lighthouses, so that in the end there is not one part of his anatomy that has not been discovered and named. When have I ever been left to love in peace? Not in Paris, where we were forced to leave the Hotel Athene and seek seclusion in a little servantless studio on the Montmartre heights. Not at Saint Gingolph, where no tourists visiting the lake of Geneva were ever supposed to come, and where Edmond always wore blue spectacles when he went into Evian so as not to be recognized. Not that time in Scotland when Charlie and I went away to the seaside, and he tried to transform his aristocratic ways and become a simple fisherman. Every time we were tracked down at last. And here are the scandalmongers at their old amusement once more!"

Suddenly she got up, called for her bathing things, slipped into a dark violet swimming suit, flung a white bath cloak about her, and in a trice had reached the little hut which stood on the margin of the water at the foot of the garden surrounding the villa. She climbed to the top of the ladder and dived. Up she came, spluttering to the surface, the head showing a few locks which had escaped from her cap and dripped down her cheeks. With a free, overarm stroke, she swam through a gap in the protective palisading out into the open water. The currents made swimming in these parts rather dangerous even for the best of swimmers, but regardless, she made for an eddy which sparkled in the sun, and swam round it. Now she saw a motor boat coming from mid-stream and making for the landing-stage she had left a moment ago. She knew both the vessel and its helmsman, and swam vigorously towards it. Within a few yards of it she suddenly dived and swam under water until she saw the keel above her. Then up she came again and cried:

"Ware, enemy; torpedo to starboard!"

Gregor, who had seen something suddenly disappear in the water ahead and who guessed whence the attack came, had slowed down to dodge his assailant. Now two brown hands gripped the side of the boat. Throwing her a rope, he exclaimed:

"Clear for action! Fire!"

Glistening and smooth, she pulled herself half out of the water, while he, making full speed ahead, put the boat's nose towards the shore.

"Spoils of war," she laughed. "Surrender!"

"No, no; having no ship, you are my prisoner."

Laughing and teasing, they reached the landing-stage. Throwing the painter to Diana's brown-skinned serving-man who had quickly come down to the waterside as they drew near, Gregor turned to speak to the swimmer, but she was nowhere to be seen, having with youthful alacrity clambered out of the water and made for the hut.

"Good morning, Sir," said Mary, and once more he was grateful to her in that she never called him "Excellency," and never bowed in deference to his rank.

He passed by the table which had been laid for breakfast in the cool twilit hall, and leaned against one of the wooden pillars whose silhouette stood out black against the pale-blue background of waters.

"Have I recaptured my lost youth? She looked no more than a girl in her teens just now. If I ever should divulge the fact that six weeks after I first met her I was confiding all my plans to this woman and relying on her for counsel and advice, I should be laughed out of court. People would say: 'Fancy at your age being led into such folly by the sight of a neat pair of ankles!' Romantic, indeed!"

The sound of naked feet running up the marble steps made him swing around. Diana stood in the doorway muffled in her towel wrap, her hair still damp from her morning dip.

"You are late and I am hungry. So must you be. Come along!"

She made him sit down and pushed dishes of meat and eggs and what not towards him, served him his tea, and scrutinized the figs that lay in a wide dish at the centre of the table. At last she found one to her liking, and, breaking it open, plunged her fine white teeth into its rosy pulp.

"Perfect! Neither too hard nor too soft, those are the best. They should be elastic, cool without and ripe within. What are you smiling at?"

"Like women, in fact!"

"There spoke Gregor the thirty-year-old."

"Yes, I suppose Gregor the greybeard should have said: 'Diana'!"

"No, not that exactly. You know the symbolism attached to this perfect fruit; you know that you grew to maturity slower and in a more natural manner than I, who, maybe, came to know everything too soon and in the end shall probably incur the wrath of the gods."

"Nereid! Were it not that you keep your charms (lately disporting themselves so shamelessly in the sun) hidden away in the folds of that clumsy wrap, I should establish my claim."

Diana had learned his way of giving the pathetic an ambiguous twist, so she let it go at that. He, too, knew his Diana well enough to know that she would never demean herself to fish for a compliment. They both sat eating, and kept their own counsel. At length Gregor broke the silence:

"We always seem to begin at different ends of the stick when we breakfast together. Suppose you pick me out a fig, to finish off with, as perfect as the one you had as an appetizer?"

She felt several of the fruits before she picked out one that satisfied her, one of the smallest in the dish. This she offered him, saying: "Perfect."

He took it, and cut it open.

"You always pronounce that word with a kind of solemnity, much as when I was a young man they came to tell us in the casino: 'Tomorrow His Majesty will be coming.'"

"That's just how I feel about it. The word makes me feel sort of anxious and uneasy."

"Perhaps it is because unconsciously you feel that you yourself are nearer perfection than most," he teased.

"I rarely compare myself with others, except in moments of weakness. I've too good an opinion of myself! But my idea of perfection is so immense, that I must remain humble for ever. That's why I have no desire to write, as you were suggesting lately. No book of mine could ever attain perfection."

"Yes, but doesn't the idea of influencing others attract you? I had that notion once when I dreamt of becoming a great composer."

"Very little, Gregor. I only care to influence those I am fond of and who are worth influencing."

"Is it worth your while this time?" he said banteringly, with a vestige of coquetry in his voice. But at the same instant he was on his feet and had come round to her side of the table. Pulling her chair back, he knelt before her, raising the wrap to her knees and kissing them:

"Is it worth your while this time, in spite of grey hairs and limbs that are no longer as lithe as a young Narcissus's?"

"Gregor," she protested softly, making him get up and sit at the table again.

Somewhat abashed, he changed the subject, and asked abruptly:

"Have you seen that—have you seen young Seeland again?"

"Oh yes, I saw him yesterday."

She spoke calmly, but he made an impatient gesture. There had been a slumbering uneasiness in his mind ever since that day three weeks ago when, on the homeward journey from the temple, in answer to his persistent questioning as to Othello's master she had said: "He was at one time an intimate friend of mine." Now this uneasiness, which had been dormant, sprang up, awake and alert again. He had not wished to intrude upon her privacy, and yet he could not resist asking: "Here?"

"Yes, he came to fetch Othello who had again run away from him."

Silence. Diana watched him. His nostrils quivered slightly, betraying his secret emotions. She laid a hand affectionately on his arm.

"Gregor, he was only here a minute or two, and I did not come down till he was about to drive away."

He looked up and said somewhat nervously:

"Yes, yes, I know, I believe you..."

"Well, and what then?"

"It must have been awfully exciting—for him!"

"Very likely."

"Did he behave—all right?"

"Faultlessly."

"Shake hands?"

"Of course."

"Kiss your hand?"

"Of course not."

"Er—came in the evening?"

"In the forenoon. If he'd come ten minutes earlier you'd have met."

"I must find out from my Austrian colleague when he thinks of utilizing the young man's capabilities in the consular service."

She laughed. He was suddenly silent, pensive. Then, drawing an envelope from an inside pocket he handed it to her.

"Just read that. Ridiculous nonsense!"

Diana spread out the sheet of paper and read: "The countess is betraying the count with Herr Andreas Seeland." The message had been typed.

She looked at him earnestly, trying to fathom his thoughts. His face revealed nothing. With a laugh she said:

"The letter to you is on smaller paper, intimate, more like a letter of condolence. Mine is on a large quarto sheet, altogether more imposing, taking the form of a solemn denunciation."

"You've had a warning too?"

Gregor spoke quickly, with ill-concealed excitement. The thought flashed through his mind that Andreas was courting both these women at once. Intolerable!

"My communication does not relate to him," she answered, reading his thoughts and hoping to tranquillize him.

"To whom, then? To me?"

"I am to be on my guard against the baron," she said, going off to fetch the letter.

The missives were compared, held up to the light, the postmarks on the envelopes examined.

"Differences don't mean anything. It must be the same person... and yet, no..."

"Whom do you think mine is from?"

"Hm. Kopp or the prince. They both dislike the baron and are fond of me. The prince has also a great admiration for you. But my correspondent—— Who can that be?"

"Linnartz, of course."

"I rather fancy it is the baroness."

"Yes, that is even more probable."

"And what do you make of it all?"

He spoke jauntily, but Diana saw that the second letter had upset him more even than the one he had received. She realized that with the receipt of these anonymous warnings the critical stage of Olivia's relationship to Andreas had begun. She knew that it behoved her to walk warily, to do her utmost to calm him down in the new emergency, just as she had lulled to rest his very natural misgivings in respect of Andreas and herself. Casting a disdainful look on the two miscreant papers, she exclaimed emphatically:

"Nonsense!"

Gregor was only waiting for this confirmation of his hopes. The expressive word acted like an elixir upon the gayer elements in his character, and he felt light-hearted again. He rose and thrust the letter back in his pocket.

"Going already?"

"I must. Conference." He embraced her passionately and left.

CHAPTER Two

Linnartz to a friend in Berlin.

"October 3rd.

"Dear Eberhard,

"It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen today, for I have a piece of news to tell, which, in the interests of the country, I should be delighted for any one to prove false. Unfortunately, everything which I am now going to disclose is authentic, I have incontestable proof. It is only after having made every possible excuse and looked at the matter in a purely objective way, that I have made up my mind to send in a complaint against a chief whom I personally respect and honour.

"I am sorry, indeed, to have to thrust upon you the uncongenial office of being clerk of the court in this matter. But I see no other way out. As far as I know, you are the only one of my friends I can trust in such a delicate affair, and the only one who is closely associated with the foreign secretary. I shall be as concise as possible.

"Contrary to all expectations, the chief seemed during the last couple of years to have settled down to a quiet and orderly life—of course I may flatter myself that this has been due in large measure to my own example and precept. But since June he has again succumbed to one of his degrading and perilous love-affairs. Last summer a lady suddenly arrived in these parts, Diana de Wassilko by name (though I can find no mention of this 'aristocratic' family in the Almanach de Gotha). Short hair, rides, swims, and has other accomplishments; well-trained in social amenities and able to impose herself. I saw her some years ago in very dubious company in St. Petersburg—from afar, of course, for even in my bachelor days I avoided the company of such women.

"She came with an introduction from the newspaper magnate Scherer, and in a very short time had completely captivated the chief. Soon it was common talk that she had become his mistress, that he had taken a house for her, servants, horses, etc. He goes every day to see her, usually once, sometimes twice, rides over or takes boat. Spends half the day in her company, often stays on through the night.

"If such demoralizing behaviour, such neglect of duty, affected himself only, the whole thing would have to be fought out between him and his wife, the unhappy Countess Olivia. But matters are far more serious. Not only is this person in a position to pass on to Scherer all the information which the chief may divulge in moments of weakness and of passion; she is now taking an active part in affairs herself! On the very best authority I learn that recently by cunning and craft she induced one of the secretaries of the foreign office here to hand over copies of letters, among them one to the French embassy which she entrusted to the chief. These papers, because they proved beyond a doubt the friendly feeling existing between this government and France (a friendship the chief has always been sceptical about), have not been shown to me or to the other gentlemen at the embassy, nor have they been placed in the archives. We have, therefore, every indication of the formation of a State within the State.

"Not until recently did the matter of the stolen information come to the ears of the foreign minister here, although even now he has no exact knowledge of the affair. He sounded the chief, and demanded the expulsion of the culprit. Of course the chief played the innocent as in duty bound. Not only did he say nothing about handing over the culprit for the local authorities to deport if they deemed it expedient; he actually went out of his way to shield her, deploring that the suspicion of such an intrigue could have arisen in connexion with a person who was not engaged in political activities and who was neither competent nor willing to dabble in matters of the kind. As the chief took up such an attitude it was impossible for the minister to insist, but since then he has been telling all the foreign representatives that the chief is 'conniving with a notorious spy.' Le Chat and Sir Henry are naturally delighted, and are making the best of their opportunities. When the minister tried to sound me in the matter, I was evasive as duty demanded. But the conflict between loyalty to my chief and loyalty to my country is so great that I am no longer certain if I am serving the fatherland honourably while shielding an erring official, even when that official is my own official superior. To add to my difficulties, now that Eckersberg is about to leave in order to take up his inheritance, I have no one at the embassy to give me moral support. All these reasons have led me, my dear Eberhard, to confide in you, and I beg you to follow your own counsel as to whether you keep silence or whether you hand on the intelligence to the most appropriate quarter.

"I wish you and your dear wife all the best the world has to offer. Heartiest greetings from my household to yours.

"Your old friend,
        "ERNST LINNARTZ."

Scherer to Diana.

"October 20th.

"The last dispatch I sent (it was smart of you to guess so promptly whom I meant by 'Owl'!) will have shown you how matters are shaping themselves in the duel between policehound and greyhound. The former has chosen E. N. for his father confessor. E. N. being a notorious gossip, the news leaked out within twenty-four hours after the receipt of policehound's letter and became the talk of club-rooms and editorial offices. That was only to be expected. But I was uneasy when I found no mention at all of the matter in the government organs, for this indicated that some big coup was about to be dealt, and was not to be hampered in any way by ill-timed accusations, no matter how savoury the morsel might be.

"In addition, the foreign secretary made no attempt to speak to me when we shook hands at the opening of an exhibition here. But on Tuesday I had a call on the phone. Would I go to see him? I allowed two days to elapse.

"His reception was cordial, and the look of hostility from his owl's eyes was balm to my heart, since it was cast upon myself! He laid the 'original document' before me—of course it only consisted of items from L's letter. I need hardly say that your name cropped up as well. He was careful to stress the fact that he knew I had not sent you out there in any official capacity; at the same time there was undeniable proof of correspondence between you and myself. When he saw that I did not demur, he came to the point. He requested me—there was no challenge in his voice, he spoke in a friendly way without rising—to recall you. I feigned astonishment. Then he got up, pushed his left shoulder forward, leaned his head towards it—his attitude had something akin to one I know so well in yourself—and said:

"'You refuse?'

"'Have you any other complaint against my employees?'

"'Only against this one. You refuse?'

"I'm sorry, Sir.'

"'You feel bound...'

"'I cannot dismiss an employee who has carried out her duties admirably, has sent most valuable reports, has established the best of relations with those I wish to have good relations with—I cannot dismiss such an employee merely on account of a denunciation, the subject of which has not come to your ears through the proper channels and whose object cannot be defended in any way.'

"'We know all there is to know.'

"'And what about the ambassador? Is he unaware of the denunciation?'

"'In all probability.'

"Does Your Excellency not intend to ask him directly?'

"'To ask him would mean to recall him.'

"'And His Majesty...?'

"'Knows nothing as yet.'

"'Has Count Münsterberg no friend who could let him know of the accusation, so that he himself might demand an inquiry?'

"'I know of none—unless you yourself...'

"'I have not the honour to call myself his friend. Suppose I ask the lady if she were willing....'

"'Would the lady be prepared to imperil her own position by communicating things that were to her disadvantage?'

"'One can but try.'

"'You are willing?'

"I will send her an account of our conversation, without comment.'

"'That's very good of you, but your trouble will be vain.'

"'We'll see.'

"I have given you this exchange with much detail, so that you may be in a position to decide whether you will undertake to tell the count what is afoot against him, and if so how much you will disclose.

"For my part I would advise you against doing this, and am only sending you this letter by a trustworthy messenger in order that you may take your bearings. The count will of course want to exculpate himself immediately, and might injure himself a great deal more by so doing than if he kept silent. His position must be uncommonly strong, seeing that none of his superiors ventures to denounce him.

"Business affairs by ordinary post. I can't get to that before Sunday.

"Yours very truly,
        "SCHERER."

CHAPTER THREE

In November the major came to replace Eckersberg. Ever since the foreign secretary had given him the hint last summer he had lived expectant of such a turn in his fortunes, and had hoped that by some stroke of good luck he might be transferred to the spot where she who had inspired him to seek advance in his profession had taken up her quarters. Not for nothing, he thought, had he been christened Felix! When, one morning, he had read in the paper the news of old Count Eckersberg's death he took the omen as a gift from the gods. He moved heaven and earth, setting friends and relatives in motion on his behalf, and he had finally thrust himself on the minister's notice one evening at a dinner party. When, a week later, his chief asked him whether he would like the post, he accepted with rapture.

Yet he had a presentiment that his lady, in spite of his fair hair and the many memories he and she shared in common, would never be weaned from her allegiance to that grey-haired man down south, whose mistress she was said to be, and who was said even by his enemies to be endowed with a most attractive personality.

The major's first two visits to Diana had not escaped the notice of his colleagues at the embassy. He had refrained from seeing any more of her, partly because he was overwhelmed with work, and partly he was deterred by the fear of meeting his chief at Diana's villa. But the baron's party, which consisted only of Linnartz and his wife, though they thought they had now secured Olivia's adherence, had quickly discerned in his visits confirmation of their suspicions of Diana's "demi-monde" antecedents.

From the very first the Linnartzes, man and wife, had looked upon the major as a possible enemy. Felix, whose natural jealousy had been aroused by visions of Gregor and Diana perpetually together, had entered upon his new post with a feeling of animosity towards his chief. But the longer he worked for the ambassador, the more he came to like the man, to feel a growing sympathy for him. Gregor's fresh vitality appealed to him, also his waywardness, and his comradely way of treating his subordinates. The embassy being a household divided against itself, the major's antagonistic reception by one faction, and the cordial welcome extended to him by the other, helped to define the newcomer's position. He made himself an object of suspicion to the Linnartzes as soon as he called on Diana. Kopp, on the other hand, had mentally rallied to the major's side. Army and navy had greeted one another with a kind of formal cordiality; the two men had recalled the dinner at the club and the homeward walk with Scherer when this very ambassador had come up for discussion. Though at the outset Scherer's name had served as a link between them, it was of Scherer's envoy, of Diana, that both men had thought during their first interview.

The prince was less affable. He could not help wondering what the bond might be between Diana and the major, and how many weeks would elapse before the military attaché would come into collision with the chief. Nevertheless, the major's open-heartedness made a strong appeal—a fact which the prince was careful to keep to himself.

When Gregor had told Diana the name of Eckersberg's successor, she had answered that she knew the major of old. Yet she kept the major's second visit from her lover. A first call could be looked upon as a mere courtesy visit, but how might others be construed? The better she came to know Gregor, the more ardent her love for him had grown, the more she was at pains to spare him anything that might shake his confidence in her, might make him uneasy or agitated. She therefore begged the major not to call again. Felix had looked mutely at her, the woman who had taught him all that was worth knowing, even how to take a rebuff; then he had left the villa like the well-disciplined soldier he was, sad at heart, and yet hopeful that some day he might be allowed to return.

That same afternoon the prince came into the office where the major and Kopp were deep in the study of a document. As he entered, he said banteringly:

"How incredibly industrious you two men of war are. By half past four you'll have saved the Fatherland, I shouldn't wonder! Decrees! Decrees! Decrees! What the devil's it all about?"

"About the amount of crape to be worn at funerals!"

"Va bene!" Then he added with a sigh: "And you went for a long ride this morning."

"Yes, in a southerly direction," answered the major, to whom this observation was addressed.

"Nice place to stay in the summer, eh?"

"A splendid place for a ride," put in Kopp.

Both men wanted to bring the major to a mention of the visits, but he exclaimed airily:

"Yes, splendid."

"The chief knows the road well," said the prince tentatively. "Let's see, how long is it since he took to riding in that direction? Six months?"

The major, who knew when his chief's visits had begun just as well as they, said calmly:

"As long ago as that? Ever since May?"

"No, it must have been July."

"Ah, of course, July."

All three looked relieved as this word was pronounced, like people who had been given an explanation for which they had long been waiting. Each stood pensive for a while, wondering what the others were thinking of. Then Kopp, drumming on the window pane, exclaimed:

"Magnificent woman!"

To which the prince responded:

"Idem est natura et ars."

The major said nothing, but looked inquiringly at the prince. The latter slowly and deliberately put his question:

"Major, have you met Fräulein de Wassilko before?"

Felix pressed his lips together, and hesitated a moment before answering.

"Yes, I had the pleasure—some time ago—slightly..."

His answer coming as it did after too long a pause, the expression which had flitted across his face when the prince had spoken the Latin tag, the agitation he had displayed when adding the word "slightly" a second too late, and leaving it hanging in the air, were enough to tell the prince all he wanted to know. Kopp, on the other hand, was as innocent as ever. The soldier could deceive his comrade, but he could not deceive the diplomat.

The prince had always been devoted to Gregor. What he admired in him was the mixture of energy and sound critical faculty—a rare conjuncture. He had a great respect for Olivia, and yet the way in which Gregor snapped up women and dropped them again with a kind of abrupt geniality made him, the precociously wise young man, feel that here was one who could dominate life as he himself would have given much to be able to do. But it was not until Diana's advent that the prince wholly surrendered to the personality of his chief. Then the marvellous change that had occurred in the count, his recaptured youth which was reflected in all he did and said, confirmed the young man in what had hitherto only been surmise as to the elder's fine capabilities. Linnartz, on the other hand, the prince had always found intolerable, and as soon as the baron's intrigues at headquarters came to his ears he determined more than ever to rally to the count's side. He knew he could rely on Kopp's help. Eckersberg had been an uncertain quantity. But his successor in office had, by this secret visit to Diana, made himself one of their group. He guessed by the major's manner the nature of the bond between Diana and this old friend of hers. What now remained to be discovered was whether the relationship between the two had come to an end as had obviously the one with Andreas, or whether the major had come here in order to oust the new lover.

In the past the prince had done much to shield his chief from the consequences of his own folly, and this time, likewise, he may have been instrumental in burking the effects of Linnartz's denunciation. But a rival might prove dangerous, a rival could do successfully what the baron merely botched, a rival could unearth matters that would bring disaster in their train, a rival alone could achieve his chief's fall. The prince had given much thought to such a possibility ere this. Now, however, he felt that events might crowd upon him at any moment. He must act at once, must infringe his own strict canons of behaviour to find out how the land lay. Kopp's presence was a boon to him, for the captain's earnestness seemed in some sort to excuse his own unusual solemnity. Having thus made up his mind to take the step, he rose from his chair and went over to where the major stood. Kopp turned from the window through which he had been gazing and followed the prince's movement. He was surprised at the strange formality of the prince's manner in addressing the military attaché:

"Major, you have doubtless noticed that there are two factions here which..."

Felix looked at his interlocutor earnestly, drew himself up as if on duty, and answered:

"I belong to this one, Your Highness."

For a moment the prince's right hand itched to go forward and clasp the major's, but his whole nature was so averse to anything that savoured of sentimentality that he overcame the impulse. He therefore said nonchalantly: "Do forgive me for this absurdly melodramatic intervention...."

The door opened, and Linnartz came in.

"The countess has sent me to invite you to take tea with her and my wife. Will you come down, gentlemen?"

As the four men entered Olivia's little boudoir, they saw Andreas sitting on a low stool showing Olivia's son the pictures in a big portfolio and telling the child stories about them. The countess seemed more agitated than usual. Her vexation at having missed an appointment with Andreas, through the blunder of a servant, had brought her inner unrest to the surface. Andreas, too, was in a similar state of nervous irritability, and had sought refuge in the boy's company. Now he wished to rejoin the others, but Clemens pulled him by the sleeve, protesting:

"Don't get up. They are only our own gentlemen."

Every one laughed, and Andreas released himself from the child's hold. The major was introduced to the young poet. As soon as Felix heard Andreas's name, he remembered the story of the dog, which had been told him, and he saw in this new acquaintance yet another man that in some way was connected with Diana. The men drew up in a semi-circle round the countess while she poured out tea. Meanwhile the prince had gone over to the lad who was sitting rather disconsolate after Andreas's desertion. Though quite unused to children, he tried to propitiate the little boy by saying as he took a seat beside him: "Give me a trial, Clemens. I can tell stories too. What have we here? Adam and Eve being turned out of the Garden of Eden. Very unpleasant scene, and all on account of an apple."

"Tell me, what does 'and they knew that they were naked' mean; I've never been able to understand," asked Clemens.

"You're right," answered the prince. "It's a queer story. Baroness, can't you help me out? I'm being put through my catechism!"

He gave up his place to the baroness who had responded to his appeal, and he now joined the circle round the tea-table.

"What has Clemens been up to? I hope he has not been naughty."

"Contrariwise, Countess, eager for knowledge; though perhaps on rather perilous ground."

"May we be told?" asked the countess, who had overheard part of the child's question and wanted to bring the conversation into the erotic sphere—a thing she was usually careful to avoid in mixed society.

"Well he has just been studying the Scriptures with Herr Seeland, and is very keen on knowing about the Fall."

"Come, come," protested Linnartz, while the others laughed. Even Andreas joined in the merriment, lest his uneasiness be observed. But he sought Olivia's eyes, hoping to deter her. She, however, clutched hold of the subject with a kind of irritable despair, saying:

"Well, and how would you explain it, Prince Eduard?"

"I'm the youngest, Countess. You should ask the men of experience who surround you..."

"I am younger still," put in Andreas, hoping even now to turn the conversation away from the subject.

"And what do you think, Youngster?" asked the countess, looking at him, a challenge in her eye, as if no one else was present.

"I can no longer conceive of the idea of sin. I can only feel."

"Well spoken, Doctor," cried the major. "I can only feel!"

Kopp nodded his head in approval.

The prince smiled, and ventured to throw the ball back to the countess, saying:

"After the elucidation we have just had, an elucidation which for brevity matches the Spartan, and for licentiousness is worthy of Sardanapalus, we have a right to ask that you too..."

"Yes, yes, please," chimed in the officers.

All were silent. The countess, who today resembled a cat that has been offended, stared gloomily in front of her, muttering:

"The Fall! As if every pleasure did not contain the germs of bitterness—and yet one wants it all the same!"

The baroness had forgotten the child for a moment, absorbed in what was being said round the tea-table. Now she turned to Clemens again, once more willing to look at the pictures. But the boy, who had followed the baroness's eyes, had likewise heard what was said, and now, puzzled by all these incomprehensible things, he sat mumchance and rigid, taking no further interest in what the baroness was showing him. At last she asked:

"Clemens, what is the matter?"

Then he bent towards her and, as children do when they are telling secrets to one another, said in an exaggerated whisper:

"Bitterness. What is bitterness? Mama used that word twice just the other day when she was upstairs with Herr Seeland."

"Where upstairs?" whispered the baroness in her turn.

"Upstairs in the guest's room, near the balcony."

"When was it?"

"In the afternoon when Papa had gone for his ride. Mama said they were going on to the balcony to see the view, but they were in the guest's room, and I heard them, twice."

"To work," broke in the baron from the other end of the room.

With the countess's strange speech ringing in their ears, the four men made their way back to the office. Linnartz uttered one word:

"Unprecedented!"

Kopp said softly:

"That's what I call nature."

The major said nothing but, without being fully conscious of his own mental process, compared Olivia's outburst with Diana's freedom of speech.

The prince thought:

"Olivia has quarrelled with her only friend, while Diana has attracted three more friends to her side."

When, downstairs in the boudoir, Andreas once more sought the boy's company, Clemens clung to his arm as if to make amends for the betrayal, pulled the young man on to the bench beside him, and glared at the baroness, so recently the recipient of his childish confidence.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Are you taking the sea road?" cried Andreas, as the major suddenly turned his horse's head to the right. "Do you want to ride that way, Major?"

It was a bright, sunny winter's morning, and Andreas had asked Felix to join him. In the early hours, the wind blew chill from the west, but later it dropped, and the days were as mild as in September. The major and the young poet had made better acquaintance after meeting at the club, and the elder man was attracted to the younger on account of the intellectual interests they shared, rather than by Andreas's peculiar character and fantastical way of talking. Above all, however, what effectively bound the major to Andreas was the fact that Diana had known and had loved the youth.

"Yes, let's take the sea road," cried back the major, who was already some distance along it. "I hardly trust my mount's off hind shoe to keep on if we ride over cobbles much longer. What sort of a beast is yours?"

"This is not my own horse," answered Andreas, overhauling him, and endeavouring to push his way to the major's left. But the latter would give no room for such a manœuvre, saying pleasantly:

"Please, no formalities! Anyway it is only seemly that a simple soldier like myself should give the place of honour to the poet. Nay more, have I not heard that you are soon to become consul general?"

The last words brought home to Andreas the fundamental cleavage between his thoughts and that reality which he had made the goal of his life. What would he not give to be consul general here and now! He said resignedly:

"I'll be grey before that day arrives."

"And prospects?"

"They keep putting me off. All I've learned about nations and customs during these many months I could have learned equally well as a mere traveller in no way concerned with seeking an official post."

"Quite possibly," agreed Felix absent-mindedly, for his thoughts had suddenly switched off to other matters. He was thinking: "It is ten o'clock, we are riding along the sea road. Why the devil should I not call on her, seeing that I am not alone..." He calculated the risks, and held his peace.

Andreas was grateful to his companion for not talking. He loved to walk or to ride long stretches at a time, without exchanging a word. Then it was that he felt the thoughts of the two silent friends to be like huntsmen each going his separate way in search of game, getting widely separated. When, at last, one or the other raised his voice, it sounded like a distant horn calling to him in the valley from afar. To the right of him was the water reflecting the sun's rays in quivering columns of light. Ships sailed by, cutting the sparkling pillars in two, and followed by comet-like tails of dancing waters; the paddles of the little steamboats tossed sprays which glinted like a shower of stars; strife and sportiveness rose from the heart of the shining expanse, bringing to the poet's vision an allegory of love. He saw Olivia, majestically proportioned as some being of a primal age, resting on the bosom of the waters, smiling sensuously as the wavelets played on her white body. Like a sea-god he arose, and was about to seize her in his arms, when he heard a voice saying:

"Shall we put our horses to a canter?"

The major's thoughts had been with Diana, recalling the days long past. He felt agitated and disturbed by his reminiscences, and had recourse to the means which he knew from old experience would restore him to calm—a good gallop. But Andreas was vexed at being thus ruthlessly disturbed in his dream which weighed heavy upon him as Olivia's hair. Still, his ambition to make good in the real world, and not to be conquered by it, stimulated him to pull himself together and to put spurs to his horse.

On arriving at the villa quarter they reined in their mounts to a walking pace. Both men looked over to the white house which had so often been in their thoughts. The poet, who did not know the time of the count's visits, having never studied the man's habits, asked himself whether Gregor might not be with Diana at this very moment. The major, for his part, had reckoned up the reasons why the count could not possibly be there at this hour, and had by now determined to venture on the call. "I wonder if she'll be very angry," he asked himself. "Is this a harem, and she an eastern monarch's favourite? Two acquaintances, on a morning ride, stop in front of her villa. Perhaps we do no more than send her a hello as she looks out of the window...."

"You—know Fräulein de Wassilko, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Shall we—we're just passing by—just give her a wave of the hand?..."

"I'd rather not stop."

"Just as you like."

The major was furious. In a trice, he felt antipathy for this young man who was hindering rather than helping. He'd probably suffered at her hands and was afraid of seeing her again. Andreas meanwhile was thinking that the major would very likely deem him a bit of a coward. He had his suspicions as to the "slight" acquaintance the major had professed to have with Diana, remembering that she had once confided to him her weakness for handsome cavalrymen. Might not Felix be the man she had alluded to, and, therefore, a rival claimant to her affections? A few minutes elapsed before he could trust himself to speak.

"It's only that—perhaps..."

"I bet we'll not be coming at an inopportune moment," put in Felix quickly. "Is that all you are afraid of?"

"Yes; what else to be sure?"

"Then I'll take French leave!"

Felix, for whom to wish was to do, rode on, and in a few minutes they drew up by Diana's garden gate. Mary, thinking it was the count, poked her head out of the window, while the manservant was making his way down:

"Can we see Fräulein de Wassilko," Felix called up to Mary.

"I'll go and ask."

A moment later, Diana herself appeared at the window, crying down to them gaily:

"Good morning. Glad to see you. Ali, let the gentlemen in.—I hope neither of your horses is inclined to kick," she resumed when her visitors entered the hall and were shaking hands. "Poor Ali is so afraid of horses that at any sign of restlessness he lets go the bridle, and we have all the trouble of catching the beasts again."

"What a jolly old hunt that would be," laughed the major.

"What'll you take? Whisky, sherry, cognac? These changing temperatures make choice a difficult matter."

She was delightfully self-possessed as she entertained her two old friends. They thought her more charming than ever while she played the hostess, making them at home, ministering to their wants. She was wearing a short, sandy-coloured skirt of a warm material, and over her blouse she had slipped on a jacket of pale lilac silk. Motioning her visitors into arm-chairs, she pulled up a dumpty for her own use. Andreas saw her profile, clear-cut against the blue waters; Felix faced her; neither could catch the expression of her eyes as she glanced now at one and now at the other. She sat there aloof and free as a statue, instinctively yielding to the spirit of independence within her.

"Not to be taken unawares," thought the officer. "Already secure in the rôle she means to play."

"Aloof," thought the poet.

"Queer notion," thought Diana. "I wonder if they came hoping to surprise Gregor. He's not likely to turn up this morning. And if he did?"

Aloud she said placidly:

"How is Countess Münsterberg?"

Her eyes travelled over the water as she spoke, for she did not wish either to look at Andreas or to look through him.

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing her this week. Perhaps Herr Seeland..."

Andreas felt that he was taking part, not so much in a dream, as in some intangible scene conjured up from the world of unreality. An unknown voice seemed to be asking him a question, to which he answered very slowly:

"I believe she is very well."

Diana murmured softly:

"I should very much like to see her again."

Andreas, whose nature responded more readily to plastic transformations than to cold facts of reality, and who was ever prone to merge contrasts into a poetical whole, suddenly threw off his reserve at this sign of Diana's sympathy, and said warmly:

"The countess, I fancy, has taken a great liking to you."

"I should, indeed, be happy if that were so, but can hardly hope that it is. It seems to me that the countess is deceived in herself."

They were interrupted by the entrance of the servant bearing a tray with glasses.

"Now, Major, you'll take whisky, I know," she cried teasingly, for the major had always and emphatically expressed his dislike for the beverage. "Real Old Scotch Whisky, your favourite poison!"

"No thanks! I'll have some of this deliciously fragrant Arab coffee."

"Are you, too, succumbing to the spell of the East? How are negotiations getting on?"

She went over to where Andreas was sitting, and, while the major held forth about Serbia, she placed the tray at Andreas's elbow. Then, taking two bottles of liqueur, she mixed a glass of cognac and Chartreuse and handed it to the young man as if he were a friend of the family whose tastes were well known and whom one was accustomed to serve. Diana had forgotten herself for a moment because she was really interested in what the major was saying, and liked him immensely for the line he was taking in respect of the count. But her spontaneous action had not escaped Felix, who drew his own conclusions, and was even more delighted at having caught Diana out, than at having solved the riddle of her earlier relationship with the poet.

Andreas took no part in the political discussion that ensued. His mind was occupied with Diana's words, so inopportunely cut short, and he spun fanciful tissues with the antitheses which these two women presented. Suddenly he was torn from his dream by a gesture he particularly loved in Diana; she was tossing her head in that audacious way which had always captivated him, and he saw her before him as she really was. Short-kirtled, she stood free and debonair in the centre of the hall, her chin tilted in the air, her curls tossed back, reminding him of the youth portrayed by Antonello da Messina. Again he was aware of her mastery of life, a mastery he admired so intensely as expressed in the statues and pictures, the romances and histories, of the Renaissance. And he said to himself:

"Does she not stand there discoursing about the Serbs as if she were a member of parliament who had been making the same demand for decades? Who could believe that those lips had recited the tenderest verses of Petrarch, and said my own poems, yes, my own poems..." He lost himself in recollections of how those lines of his had been written, the circumstances that had inspired them; and incontinently his thoughts flew back to the enchanted isle.

The sound of horses' hoofs hammered upon his ears, breaking the current of his fantasy. Bustle without, and the noise of neighing as when horses that know one another meet. Then Gregor stood on the threshold.

"May I come in? Am I disturbing you? I was just passing. Came to ask how you were—Good-morning, Major. Ah, Herr Seeland?—Glorious riding weather. How would it be if we all went on a little expedition round to—— Perhaps rather too late—and business..."

"I'm all confusion, Sir," said Felix, "to be caught away from work at so late an hour."

"Pray don't mention it. I'm caught playing truant too. I ought to have been consulting the oracle long ere this for an answer to this morning's dispatches. An almost insoluble riddle, I must confess. What has the sphinx to say about it? And what the poet?"

He was the "mad" Gregor of his youth, tossing his ambiguous words in the air, including all three in his talk, making light of an embarrassing situation with quips and sallies, anecdotes and laughter, putting them at their ease. But he simultaneously scrutinized their faces, took in every detail of table, chair, and stool, to see if anything suspicious lay hidden. Then he looked again at Diana, who had not shown the slightest uneasiness, but had remained her own natural self in spite of the surprise of his sudden appearance. When his first rush of words was exhausted, she fell in with his mood, teased him, retaliated, egged him on with smart repartee, until the major and the poet were bewildered by the concentrated medley of gallantry and mockery, of gaiety and mischievousness, and retired from the scene, leaving the field to a man who was victor even before he entered the arena.

At last the two young men rose to go, and Gregor said, with an abrupt change of manner:

"How are your plans shaping themselves, Herr Seeland? Are you going to be sent travelling? Or are we to have the pleasure of your company among us for some time to come?"

Andreas's reserve once more broke down as he answered:

"If Your Excellency will not consider me a nuisance..."

"Certainly not, my dear Doctor. Anyway you seem to have returned to the country of the muses rather than gone forward into the realm of politics, eh?"

"May I ask why...?"

"The countess has told me you are reading Dante together. I'm fond of the poet myself, at least the first part. Paradise is for me too—what shall I say—too..."

"Innocent, perhaps," put in Andreas, trying in vain to mitigate the sharpness of the words by speaking gently.

"Say, rather, too clear," interposed Diana, who scented danger in the air.

"I—love the rose of heaven," added Andreas defiantly.

"For my part," said Gregor, avoiding Diana's eye, "I'd like to be like Paolo in the region of winds, always flying, flying eternally, with Francesca."

Diana laughed.

"Yes, but then both you and Francesca would to all eternity have your old cavalry sabre stuck into their hearts!"

"Is that so? Was that so? I had quite forgotten about the sword. I've always had the picture of them in my mind as eternally flying. To be flying with Francesca!"

When they were alone again, Gregor looked searchingly at Diana as if awaiting an explanation, as was the custom of this man in his dealings with women. But Diana merely laughed up at him so sweetly that his one desire was to catch her and hug her to him. She, however, kept the table between them, dodging his every approach. At last she took refuge behind the piano whose long tail cut off one of the corners of the room. Before he could catch hold of her she drummed delicately on the case to remind him of the lesson the fair Helen had taught her husband—that he should have knocked before entering, since his coming was unexpected.

Gregor, whose mind had been completely tranquillized by the behaviour of the two men, was in a gay mood. He took his place at the keyboard, struck a few chords, and after a while began playing Chopin's Fantasia-Impromptu. As he played, he kept Diana close to him, his right arm encircling her hips so that he had some difficulty in reaching the keys. Her left arm had slipped round his neck.

As the music echoed through the room, she stood motionless; even her hand had ceased to caress his hair, and lay at rest. The extraordinary rigidity of her body thus pressed so close against him filled him with a vague apprehension as he played, and he looked up at her in alarm. Her head rose above him, the eyes were closed, but around the slightly open mouth was a smile of perfect self-surrender such as he had seen only once before—the morning they had reached the temple. Very cautiously, so as not to rouse her from her trance, only desirous of giving a lead to her thoughts, he quickly let the fantasia peter out into a few chords and cadences which brought him to the Nocturne in F-sharp major.

A new light of interpretation flashed upon him as he played. In the charmed circle of love, he once again heard this melody which had sprung intact from Eros's realm. He pressed his beloved yet closer to his side, laid his grey head against her breast, and he, too, closed his eyes, while his hands continued to play and he forgot that it was he himself that drew the music from the keys. It seemed to him that he was cradled with her upon these swaying passages of sound; as if they lay together dreaming on a cloud while the wind blew around them; as if they were almost sexless beings, united by an intangible tenderness, without ecstasy, without awaking, without strife, without goal....

Voices from outside came to disturb them. Diana sprang away, and Gregor broke off suddenly as Mary came in to say deferentially that her mistress's secretary had arrived. Gregor burst into jovial laughter, exclaiming:

"The fair Helen was right, one should never come unannounced, especially when one is a man of Menelaus's age!"

"Send him to the devil, Mary," said Diana in a rage.

"No, no! Let him be. Show him into the other room," said Gregor. "He need not exactly find me here, you know. Duty calls, as Linnartz would say. I'll leave the field to your secretary, since work claims you. Let's hope you will have some famous revelations from him. I'm off. And may I—tomorrow...?"

"Tonight, come, come back this evening," she cried, still carried beyond herself by those moments of rapturous communion.

Never before had she pleaded for his company, it had always been he who urged. He was taken aback, and stood for a while asking himself whether it were possible that at last her love was unfolding itself like a flower.... He drew her to him.... Did her words imply a surrender she had never yet granted him? ... And he smiled down into her eyes, saying:

"This evening, if you like. Nocturnes in the morning are in any case not quite fair! I'm invited to the Spanish embassy tonight. Never mind, I'll plead a headache, and he can say what he likes in Madrid!"

Diana gazed after him as he rode away.

"I breathed in time to that night-song, and as my bosom rose and fell with the music, his head rose and fell too.... Is his hair grey? ... I did not see any... His kiss and his hand are gentler than the fierce touch of youth.... We hover beyond the starry heights and the depths...."

She wrenched herself away from such musings, and went resolutely through the hall to the room where her secretary awaited her.

"Good-morning! What is the news today?"

Her tone was friendly, and yet distant, as though she were the wife of a minister of State. She dealt with correspondence, with dispatches, questioned the man, discussed affairs with him, then she was silent. Finally she got up, and started dictating:

"Postscript to the dispatch of the 26th. (You can type this afterwards.) I did not receive the report from T. until this morning. As far as my trustworthy sources of information go, we may reckon that the influence of the very able French consul in this province will continue to grow. He is actually responsible for having brought the construction of the railway to a standstill in that locality under pretext of Mohammedan feast-days. We must try and win over his lady, an Armenian, who was once the Wali's...."