Standing just within the door, smiling and rubbing the gray bristles on his lip, was the Colonel. In the center of the room stood a woman dressed in gray. Maurice recognized the dress; it belonged to Mademoiselle of the Veil, who was now sans veil, sans hat. A marvelous face was revealed to Maurice, a face of that peculiar beauty which poets and artists are often minded to deny, but for the love of which men die, become great or terrible, overturn empires and change the map of the world.
Her luxuriant hair, which lay in careless masses about the shapely head and intelligent brow, was a mixture of red and brown and gold, a variety which never ceases to charm; skin the pallor of ancient marble, with the shadow of rose lying below the eyes, the large, gray chatoyant eyes, which answered every impulse of the brain which ruled them. The irregularity of her features was never noticeable after a glance into those eyes. At this moment both eyes and lips expressed a shade of amusement.
Maurice, who was astonished never more than a minute at a time, immediately recovered. His toilet was somewhat disarranged, and the back of his head a crow's nest, but, nevertheless, he placed a hand over his heart and offered a low obeisance.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, in a voice which Maurice would have known anywhere. “I hope the journey has caused you no particular annoyance.”
“The annoyance was not so particular, Madame,” said Fitzgerald stiffly, “as it was general.”
“And four of my troopers will take oath to that!” interjected the Colonel.
“Will Madame permit me to ask when will the opera begin?” asked Maurice.
“I am glad,” said she, “that you have lost none of your freshness.”
Maurice was struck for a moment, but soon saw that the remark was innocent of any inelegance of speech. Fitzgerald was gnawing his mustache and looking out of the corner of his eyes—into hers.
“My task, I confess, is a most disagreeable one,” she resumed, lightly beating her gauntlets together; “but when one serves high personages one is supposed not to have any sentiments.” To Fitzgerald she said: “You are the son of the late Lord Fitzgerald.”
“For your sake, I regret to say that I am.”
“For my sake? Worry yourself none on that point. As the agent of her Highness I am inconsiderable.”
“Madame,” said Maurice, “will you do us the honor to inform us to whom we are indebted for this partiality to our distinguished persons?”
“I am Sylvia Amerbach,” quietly.
“Amerbach?” said Maurice, who was familiar with the great names of the continent. “Pardon me, but that was once a famous name in Prussia.”
“I am distantly related to that house of princes,” looking at her gauntlets.
“Well, Madame, since your business doubtless concerns me, pray, begin;” and Fitzgerald leaned against the mantelpiece and fumbled with the rim of his monocle.
Maurice walked to one of the windows and perched himself on the broad sill. He began to whistle softly:
Voici le sabre de mon pere! Tu vas le mettre a ton cote....
Beyond the window, at the edge of the forest, he saw a sentinel pacing backward and forward. Indeed, no matter which way he looked, the autumnal scenery had this accessory. Again, he inspected the bars. These were comparatively new. It was about thirty feet to the court below. On the whole, the outlook was discouraging.
“Count,” said the distant relative of the house of Amerbach, “how shall I begin?”
“I am not a diplomat, Madame,” answered the Colonel. “If, however, you wish the advice of a soldier, I should begin by asking if my lord the Englishman has those consols about his person.”
“Fie, count!” she cried, laughing; “one would say that was a prelude to robbery.”
“So they would. As for myself, I prefer violence to words. If we take these pretty papers by violence, we shall still have left our friend the Englishman his self-respect. And as for words, while my acquaintance with our friend is slight, I should say that they would only be wasted here.”
The whistle from the window still rose and fell.
“Monsieur, I have it in my power to make you rich.”
“I am rich,” replied Fitzgerald.
“In honors?”
“Madame, the title I have is already a burden to me.” Fitzgerald laughed, which announced that the cause of the duchess was not getting on very well. Once or twice he raised the tortoiseshell rim to his eye, but dropped it; force of habit was difficult to overcome.
“Your father nourished a particular rancor against the late duke.”
“And justly, you will admit.”
“Her Highness has offered you five millions for slips of paper worth no more than the ink which decorates them.”
“And I have refused. Why? Simply because the matter does not rest with me. You have proceeded with a high hand, Madame, or rather your duchess has. Nothing will come of it. Had there been any possibility of my considering your proposals, this kidnaping would have destroyed it.”
She smiled. Maurice saw the smile and stopped whistling long enough to scratch his chin, which was somewhat in need of a razor. He had seen many women smile that way. He had learned to read it. It was an inarticulate “perhaps.”
“The rightful successor to the throne—”
“Is Madame the duchess,” Fitzgerald completed. “I haven't the slightest doubt of that. One way or the other, it does not concern me. I came here simply to fulfill the wishes of my father; and my word, Madame, fulfill them I shall. You are holding me a prisoner, but uselessly. On the twentieth the certificates fall due against the government. If they are not presented either for renewal or collection, the bankruptcy scheme of your duchess will fall through just the same. I will tell you the truth, Madame. My father never expected to collect the moneys so long as Leopold sat on the throne.”
The whistle grew shrill.
“This officer here,” continued Fitzgerald, while the Colonel made a comical grimace, “suggests violence. I shall save him the trouble. I have seen much of the world, Madame—the hard side of it—and, knowing it as I do, it is scarcely probable that I should carry about my person the equivalent of four millions of crowns.”
“Well, Madame,” said the Colonel, pushing his belt closer about his hips, as a soldier always does when he is on the point of departure, “what he says is true, every word of it. I see nothing more to do at present.”
Mademoiselle of the Veil was paying not so much attention to the Colonel's words as she was to Maurice's whistle.
“Monsieur,” she said, coldly, “have you no other tune in your repertory?”
“Pardon me!” exclaimed Maurice. “I did not intend to annoy you.” He stepped down out of the window.
“You do not annoy me; only the tune grows rather monotonous.”
“I will whistle anything you may suggest,” he volunteered.
She did not respond to this flippancy, though the pupils of her gray eyes grew large with anger. She walked the length of the room and back.
“Count, what do you think would be most satisfactory to her Highness, under the circumstances?”
“I have yet to hear of her Highness' disapproval of anything you undertake.”
“Messieurs, your parole d'honneur, and the freedom of the chateau is yours—within the sentry lines. I wish to make your recollections of the Red Chateau rather pleasant than otherwise. I shall be most happy if you will honor my table with your presence.”
The Colonel coughed, Maurice smoothed the back of his head, and Fitzgerald caught up his monocle.
“My word, Madame,” said Maurice, “is not worth much, being that of a diplomat, but such as it is it is yours. However, my clothes are scarcely presentable,” which was true enough. Several buttons were missing, and the collar hung by a thread.
“That can be easily remedied,” said she. “There are several new hussar uniforms in the armory.”
“O, Madame, and you will permit me to wear one of those gay uniforms of light blue and silver lace?”
The Colonel looked thoughtfully at Maurice. He was too much a banterer himself to miss the undercurrent of raillery. He eyed Madame discreetly; he saw that she had accepted merely the surface tones.
“And you will wear one, too, Jack?” said Maurice.
“No, thank you. I pass my word, Madame; I do not like confinement.”
“Well, then, the count will shortly return and establish you in better quarters. Let us suppose you are my guests for a—a fortnight. Since both of us are right, since neither your cause nor mine is wrong, an armistice! Ah! I forgot. The east corridor on the third floor is forbidden you. Should you mistake and go that way, a guard will direct you properly. Messieurs, till dinner!” and with a smile which illumined her face as a sudden burst of sunshine flashes across a hillside, she passed out of the room, followed by her henchman, who had not yet put aside the thoughtful repose of his countenance.
“A house party,” said Maurice, when he could no longer hear their footsteps. “And what the deuce have they got so valuable in the east corridor on the third floor?”
“It's small matter to me,” said Fitzgerald tranquilly. “The main fact is that she has given up her game.”
Said Maurice, his face expressing both pity and astonishment: “My dear, dear John! Didn't you see that woman's eyes, her hair, her chin, her nose?”
“Well?”
“True; you haven't had any experience with petticoats. This woman will rend heaven and earth rather than relinquish her projects, or rather those of her mistress. I should like to see this duchess, who shows a fine discernment in the selection of her assistants. Beware of the woman who is frankly your enemy. If she is frank, it is because she is confident of the end; if not, she is frank in order to disarm us of the suspicion of cunning. I would give much to know the true meaning of this house party.”
“Hang me if I can see what difference it makes. She can not do anything either by frankness or by cunning.”
“She gathered us in neatly, this red-haired Amazon.”
“Red-haired!” in a kind of protest.
“Why, yes; that's the color, isn't it?” innocently.
“I thought it a red-brown. It's too bad that such a woman should be mixed up in an affair like this.”
“Woman will sacrifice to ambition what she never will sacrifice to love. Hush; I hear the Colonel returning.”
They were conducted to the opposite wing of the chateau, to a room on the second floor. Its windows afforded an excellent view of the land which lay south. Hills rolled away like waves of gold, dotted here and there with vineyards. Through the avenue of trees they could see the highway, and beyond, the river, which had its source in the mountains ten miles eastward.
The room itself was in red, evidently a state chamber, for it contained two canopied beds. Several fine paintings hung from the walls, and between the two windows rose one of those pier glasses which owe their existence to the first empire of France. On one of the beds Maurice saw the hussar uniform. On the dresser were razors and mugs and a pitcher of hot water.
“Ah,” he said, with satisfaction.
“The boots may not fit you,” said the Colonel, “but if they do not we will manage some way.”
“I shall not mind the fortnight,” said Maurice. “By the way, Colonel, I notice that French seems to prevail instead of German. Why is that?”
“It is the common language of politeness, and servants do not understand it. As for myself, I naturally prefer the German tongue; it is blunt and honest and lacks the finesse of the French, which is full of evasive words and meanings. However, French predominates at court. Besides, heaven help the foreigner who tries to learn all the German tongues to be found in the empires of the Hohenzollern and Hapsburg. Luncheon will be served to you in the dining hall; the first door to the right at the foot of the grand staircase. I shall send you a trooper to act as valet.”
“Spare me, Colonel,” said Maurice, who did not want any one between him and the Englishman when they were alone.
“I have never had a valet,” said Fitzgerald; “he would embarrass me.”
“As you please,” said the Colonel, a shade of disappointment in his tones. “After all, you are soldiers, where every man is for himself. Make yourselves at home;” and he withdrew.
Maurice at once applied lather and razor, and put on the handsome uniform, which fitted him snugly. The coat was tailless, with rows of silver buttons running from collar to waist. The breast and shoulders and sleeves were covered with silver lace, and Maurice concluded that it must be nothing less than a captain's uniform. The trousers were tight fitting, with broad stripes of silver; and the half boots were of patent leather. He walked backward and forward before the pier-glass.
“I say, Fitz, what do you think of it?”
“You're a handsome rascal, Maurice,” answered the Englishman, who had watched his young friend, amusement in his sober eyes. “Happily, there are no young women present.”
“Go to! I'll lay odds that our hostess is under twenty-five.”
“I meant young women of sixteen or seventeen. Women such as Madame have long since passed the uniform fever.”
“Not when it has lace, my friend, court lace. Well, forward to the dining hall.”
Both were rather disappointed to find that Madame would be absent until dinner. Fitzgerald could not tell exactly why he was disappointed, and he was angry with himself for the vague regret. Maurice, however, found consolation in the demure French maid who served them. Every time he smiled she made a courtesy, and every time she left the room Maurice nudged Fitzgerald.
“Smile, confound you, smile!” he whispered. “There's never a maid but has her store of gossip, and gossip is information.”
“Pshaw!” said Fitzgerald, helping himself to cold ham and chicken.
“Wine, Messieurs?” asked the maid.
“Ah, then Madame offers the cellars?” said Maurice.
“Yes, Messieurs. There is chambertin, champagne, chablis, tokayer and sherry.”
“Bring us some chambertin, then.”
“Oui, Messieurs.”
“Hurry along, my Hebe,” said Maurice.
The maid was not on familiar terms with the classics, but she told the butler in the pantry that the smooth-faced one made a charming Captain.
“Keep your eyes open,” grumbled the butler; “he'll be kissing you next.”
“He might do worse,” was the retort. Even maids have their mirrors, and hers told a pretty story. When she returned with the wine she asked: “And shall I pour it, Messieurs?”
“No one else shall,” declared Maurice. “When is the duchess to arrive?”
“I do not know, Monsieur,” stepping in between the chairs and filling the glasses with the ruby liquid.
“Who is Madame Sylvia Amerbach?”
“Madame Sylvia Amerbach,” placing the bottle on the table and going to the sideboard. She returned with a box of “Khedives.”
Fitzgerald laughed at Maurice's disconcertion.
“Where has Madame gone?”
“To the summer home of Countess Herzberg, who is to return with Madame.”
“Oho!” cried Maurice, in English. “A countess! What do you say to that, my Englishman?”
“She is probably old and plain. Madame desires a chaperon.”
“You forget that Madame desires nothing but those certificates. And the chaperon does not live who could keep an eye on Madame Sylvia Amerbach.”
The mention of the certificates brought back all the Englishman's discomfort, and he emptied his glass of wine not as a lover of good wine should. Soon they rose from the table. The maid ran to the door and held it open. Fitzgerald hurried through, but Maurice lingered a moment. He put his hand under the porcelain chin and looked into the china-blue eyes. Fitzgerald turned.
“What was that noise?” he asked, as Maurice shouldered him along the hall.
“What noise?”
Madame came back to the chateau at five, and dinner was announced at eight. The Countess Herzberg was young and pretty, the possessor of a beautiful mouth and a charming smile. The Colonel did the honors at the table. Maurice almost fancied himself in Vienna, the setting of the dining room was so perfect. The entire room was paneled in walnut. On the mantel over the great fireplace stood silver candlesticks with wax tapers. The candlestick in the center of the table was composed of twelve branches. The cuisine was delectable, the wines delicious. Madame and the countess were in evening dress. The Colonel was brimming with anecdote, the countess was witty, Madame was a sister to Aspasia.
Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled. It was very irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve to alter this fact. What was the meaning of it? What lay underneath?
Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame when her attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw that Madame was returning this cursory investigation. There was, however, altogether a different meaning in these surreptitious glances. In the one there were interest, doubt, admiration; in the other, cold calculation. At no time did the conversation touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles away—if surface indications went for aught.
Finally the Colonel rose. “A toast—to Madame the duchess, since this is her very best wine!”
Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered his eyes and made no movement to raise his glass. The pupils in Madame's eyes grew small.
“That is scarcely polite, Monsieur,” she said.
“Madame,” he replied gently, “my parole did not include toasts to her Highness. My friend loves wine for its own sake, and seldom bothers his head about the toast as long as the wine is good. Permit me to withdraw the duchess and substitute yourself.”
“Do so, if it will please you. In truth, it was bad taste in you, count, to suggest it.”
“It's all the same to me;” and the Colonel refilled his glass and nodded.
The countess smiled behind her fan, while Maurice felt the edge of the mild reproach which had been administered to him.
“I plead guilty to the impeachment. It was very wrong. Far from it that I should drink to the health of the Philistines. Madame the countess was beating me down with her eyes, and I did not think.”
“I was not even looking at you!” declared the countess, blushing.
The incident was soon forgotten; and at length Madame and the countess rose.
Said the first: “We will leave you gentlemen to your cigars; and when they have ceased to interest you, you will find us in the music room.”
“And you will sing?” said Maurice to the countess.
“If you wish.” She was almost beautiful when she smiled, and she smiled on Maurice.
“I confess,” said he, “that being a prisoner, under certain circumstances, is a fine life.”
“What wicked eyes he has,” said the countess, as she and Madame entered the music room.
“Do not look into them too often, my dear,” was the rejoinder. “I have asked not other sacrifice than that you should occupy his attention and make him fall in love with you.”
“Ah, Madame, that will be easy enough. But what is to prevent me from falling in love with him? He is very handsome.”
“You are laughing!”
“Yes, I am laughing. It will be such an amusing adventure, a souvenir for my old age—and may my old age forget me.”
The men lit their cigars and smoked in silence.
“Colonel,” said Maurice at last, “will you kindly tell me what all this means?”
“Never ask your host how old his wine is. If he is proud of it, he will tell you.” He blew the smoke under the candle shades and watched it as it darted upward. “Don't you find it comfortable? I should.”
“Conscience will not lie down at one's bidding.”
“I understood that you were a diplomat?” The Colonel turned to Fitzgerald. “I hope that, when you are liberated, you will forget the manner in which you were brought here.”
“I shall forget nothing,” curtly.
“The devil! I can not fight you; I am too old.”
Fitzgerald said nothing, and continued to play with his emptied wine-glass.
“The Princess Alexia,” went on the Colonel, “has a bulldog. I have always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog was. The bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an Englishman.”
This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence. The Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of Maurice were anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was contemplating them both, shrewdly.
“Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine.”
The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood before the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In the center of the room was a table littered with books, magazines and illustrated weeklies.
“Do you play chess, Monsieur?” said Madame to Fitzgerald.
“I do not.”
“Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done.”
Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He followed every move she made because he had never seen till now so round and shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped with pink filbert nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as might be. He, like Maurice, was pondering over the unusual position in which he found himself; but analysis of any sort was not his forte; so he soon forgot all save the delicate curve of Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple of her laughter, the abysmal gray of her eyes.
“Monsieur le Capitaine,” said the countess, “what shall I sing to you?”
“To me?” said Maurice. “Something from Abt.”
Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice rose in song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of the window into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed the curtain of darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her head and looked at him. It was not only a handsome face she saw, but one that carried the mark of refinement.... Maurice was thinking of the lonely princess and her grave dark eyes. He possessed none of that power from which princes derive benefits; what could he do? And why should he interest himself in a woman who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even a friend? He smiled.
If Fitzgerald was not adept at analysis, he was. Nothing ever entered his mind or heart that he could not separate and define. It was strange; it was almost laughable; to have fenced as long and adroitly as he had fenced, and then to be disarmed by one who did not even understand the foils! Surrender? Why not?... By and by his gaze traveled to the chess players. There was another game than chess being played there, though kings and queens and knights and bishops were still the sum of it.
“Are you so very far away, then?” The song had ceased; the countess was looking at him curiously.
“Thank you,” he said; “indeed, you had taken me out of myself.”
“Do you like chestnuts?” she asked suddenly.
“I am very fond of them.”
“Then I shall fetch some.” It occurred to her that the room was very warm; she wanted a breath of air—alone.
“Checkmate!” cried the Colonel, joyfully.
“Do you begin to understand?” asked Madame.
“A little,” admitted Fitzgerald, who did not wish to learn too quickly. “I like to watch the game.”
“So do I,” said Maurice, who had approached the table. “I should like to know what the game is, too.”
Both Madame and the Colonel appeared to accept the statement and not the innuendo. Madame placed the figures on the board.
Maurice strolled over to the table and aimlessly glanced through the Vienna illustrated weeklies. He saw Franz Josef in characteristic poses, full-page engravings of the military maneuvers and reproductions of the notable paintings. He picked up an issue dated June. A portrait of the new Austrian ambassador to France attracted his attention. He turned the leaf. What he saw on the following page caused him to widen his eyes and let slip an ejaculation loud enough to be heard by the chess players. Madame seemed on the point of rising. Maurice did not lower his eyes nor Madame hers.
“Checkmate in three moves, Madame!” exclaimed the Colonel; “it is wonderful.”
“What's the matter, Maurice?” asked Fitzgerald.
“Jack, I am a ruined man.”
“How? What?” nearly upsetting the board.
“I just this moment remember that I left my gas burning at the hotel, and it is extra.”
The Colonel and Fitzgerald lay back in their chairs and roared with laughter.
But Madame did not even smile.
“I want to finish this cigar, Jack,” said Maurice, who wished to be alone with his thoughts. He sat in the chair by the window and lifted his feet to the sill. The night wind was warm and odorous. He had found a clue, but through what labyrinth would it lead him? A strange adventure, indeed; so strange that he was of half a mind that he dreamed. Prisoners.... Why? And these two women alone in this old chateau, a house party. There lay below all this some deep design.
Should he warn his friend? Indeed, as yet, of what had he to warn him? To discover Madame to Fitzgerald would be to close the entrance to this labyrinth which he desired to explore. How would Madame act, now that she knew he possessed her secret? Into many channels he passed, but all these were blind, and led him to no end. Madame had a purpose; to discover what this purpose was Fitzgerald must remain in ignorance. What a woman! She resembled one of those fabulous creatures of medieval days. And why was the countess on the scene, and what was her part in this invisible game?
He finished his cigar and lit another; but the second cigar solved no more than the first. Mademoiselle of the Veil! He knew now what she meant; having asked her to lift her veil, she had said, “Something terrible would happen.” At last he, too, sought bed, but he did not sleep so soundly as did Fitzgerald.
Ten days of this charming captivity passed; there was a thicker carpet of leaves on the ground, and new distances began to show mistily through the dismantling forest. But there were no changes at the Red Chateau—no outward changes. It might, in truth, have been a house party but for the prowling troopers and the continual grumbling of the Englishman when alone with Maurice.
During the day they hunted or took long rides into the interior of the duchy. Both women possessed a fine skill in the saddle. In the evenings there were tourneys at chess, games and music.
Each night Fitzgerald learned a little more about chess and a little less about woman. The countess, airy and delicate as a verse of Voiture's, bent all her powers (and these were not inconsiderable) toward the subjugation of Maurice. She laughed, she sang, she fascinated. She had the ability to amuse hour after hour. She offered vague promises with her eyes, and refused them with her lips. Maurice, who was never impregnable under the fire of feminine artillery, was at times half in love with her; but his suspicions, always near the surface, saved him.
Sometimes he caught her hand and retained it over long; and once, when he kissed it, there was no rebuke. Again, when she sang, he would lean so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek, and her fingers would stumble into discords. Often she would suddenly rise from the piano and walk swiftly from the room, through the halls, into the park, where, though he followed, he never could find her. One day she and Madame returned from a walk in the forest, the one with high color and brilliant eyes, the other impassive as ice. Now, all these things did not escape Maurice, but he could not piece them together with any result.
On the morning of the tenth day the two prisoners came down to breakfast, wondering how much longer this house party was going to last.
“George! I wish I had a pipe,” said Maurice.
“So do I,” Fitzgerald echoed glumly. “I am tired of cigars and weary of those eternal cigarettes. How the deuce are we going to get out of this?”
“What's your hurry? We're having a good time.”
“That's the trouble. Hang the duchess!”
“Hang her and welcome. But why do you complain to me and not to Madame? Are you afraid of her? Does she possess, then, what is called tamer's magnetism? O, my lion, if only you would roar a bit more at her and less at me!”
“I don't know what she possesses; but I do know that I'd give a deal to be out of this.”
“Is the chambermaid idea bothering you?”
“No, Maurice, it is not the chambermaid. I feel oppressed by something which I can not define.”
“Maybe you are not used to tokay forty years old?”
“Wine has nothing to do with it.”
He was so serious that Maurice dropped his jesting tone. “By the way,” he said, “do you sleep soundly?”
“No. Every night I am awakened by the noise of a horse entering the court-yard.”
“So am I. Moreover, Madame seems to be troubled with the same sleeplessness.
“Madame?”
“Yes. She is so troubled with sleeplessness that nothing will quiet her but the sight of the man who rides the horse: all of which is to say that a courier arrives each night with dispatches from Bleiberg. Now, to tell the truth, the courier does not keep me awake half so much as the thought of who is eating three meals a day at the end of the east corridor on the third floor. But there are Madame and the countess; we have kept them waiting.”
“Good morning,” said Madame, smiling as they came up. “And how have you slept?”
“Nothing wakes me but the roll of the drum or thunder,” answered Fitzgerald diffidently.
“I dream of horses,” said Maurice carelessly.
“Bon jour, M. le Capitaine!” cried the countess. Then she added with a light laugh: “Come, let me try you. Portons armes! Presentons armes!—How beautifully you do it!—Par le flanc gauche! En avant—marche!”
Maurice swung, clicked his heels and, with a covert glance at Madame, led the way into the dining hall, whistling, “Behold the saber of my father!”
“Ah, I do not see the Colonel,” said Maurice; for night and day the old soldier had been with them.
“He has gone to Brunnstadt,” said Madame, “but will return this evening.”
The breakfast was short and merry. Words passed across the table that were as crisp as the toast. Maurice remarked the advent of two liveried servants, stolid Germans by the way, who, as he afterward found, did not understand French.
“So the Colonel has gone to Brunnstadt?” said Maurice; which was a long way of asking why the Colonel had gone to Brunnstadt.
“Yes,” said Madame; “he has gone to consult Madame the duchess to see what shall be done to you, Monsieur.”
“To be done to me?” ignoring the challenge in her eyes.
“Yes. You must not forget that you promised me your sword, and I have taken the liberty of presenting it to her Highness.”
“I remember nothing about promising my sword,” said Maurice, gazing ceiling-ward.
“What! There was a mental reservation?”
“No, Madame. I remember my words only too well. I said that I loved adventure, thoughtless youth that I was, and that I was easy to be found. Which is all true, and part proved, since I am here.”
“Still, the uniform fits you exceedingly well. The hussars hold a high place at court.”
“Madame,” replied he pleasantly, “I appreciate the honor, but at present my sword and fealty are sworn to my own country. And besides, I have no desire to take part in the petty squabble between this country and the kingdom.”
The forecast of a storm lay in Madame's gray eyes.
“Eh? You wish to placate me, Madame?” thought Maurice.
“He is right, Madame,” interposed the countess. “But away with politics! It spoils all it touches.”
“And away with the duchess, too,” put in Fitzgerald, reaching for a bunch of yellow grapes. “With all due respect to your cause and beliefs, Madame the duchess, your mistress, is a bugbear to me. The very sound of the title arouses in my heart all that is antagonistic.”
“You have not seen her Highness, Monsieur,” said Madame, quietly. “Perhaps she is all that is desirable. She is known to be rich, her will is paramount to all others. When she sets her heart on a thing she leaves no stone unturned until she procures it. And, countess, do they not say of her that she possesses something—an attribute—more dangerous than beauty—fascination?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Madame the duchess,” said Maurice dryly, “has a stanch advocate in you, Madame.”
“It is not unnatural.”
“Be that as it may,” said Fitzgerald, “she is mine enemy.”
“Love your enemies, says the Book,” was the interposition of the countess, who stole a sly glance at Maurice which he did not see.
“That would not be difficult—in some cases,” replied the Englishman.
“Ah, come,” thought Maurice, “my friend is beginning to pick up his lines.” Aloud he said: “Madame, will you confer a favor on me by permitting me to inform my superior in Vienna of my whereabouts?”
“No, Monsieur; prisoners are not allowed to communicate with the outside world. Are you not enjoying yourself? Is not everything being done for your material comfort? What complaint have you to offer?”
“A gilded cage is no less a cage.”
“It is but temporary. The duchess has commanded that you be held until it is her pleasure to come to the chateau. O, Monsieur, where is your gallantry? Here the countess and I have done so much to amuse you, and you speak of a gilded cage!”
“Pretty bird! pretty bird!” said Maurice, in a piping voice, “will it have some caraway?”
Madame laughed. “Well, I hear the grooms leading the horses under the porte cochere. Go, then, for the morning ride. I am sorry that I can not accompany you. I have some letters to write.”
Fitzgerald curled his mustache. “I'll forswear the ride myself. I was reading a good book last night; I'll finish it, and keep Madame company.”
Madame trifled with the toast crumbs. Fitzgerald's profound dissimulation caused a smile to cross Maurice's lips.
“Come, countess,” said Maurice, gaily; “we'll take the ride together, since Madame has to write and my lord to read.”
“Five minutes until I dress,” replied the countess, and she sped away.
“What a beautiful girl!” said Madame, fondly. “Poor dear! Her life has not been a bed of roses.”
“No?” said Maurice, while Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“No. She was formerly a maid of honor to her Highness. She made an unhappy marriage.”
“And where is the count?” asked Fitzgerald in surprise. He shot a glance of dismay at Maurice, who, translating it, smiled.
“He is dead.”
Fitzgerald looked relieved.
“What a fine thing it is,” said Maurice, rising, “to be a man and wed where and how you will!” He withdrew to the main hall to don his cap and spurs. As he stooped to strap the latter, he saw a sheet of paper, crinkled by recent dampness, lying on the floor. He picked it up—and read it.
“Why—not—the—pantry maid?” Maurice drawled. “That is flippant.” He read the message again. “What plan?” Suddenly he struck his thigh. “By George, so that is it, eh, Madame? So that is why we are so comfortably lodged here? I am in the way, and you bait the hook with a countess! Since the purse will not lead the way, the heart, eh? Certainly I shall tell my lord the Englishman all about his hostess when I return from the ride. Decidedly you are clever. O, how careless! Not even in cipher, so that he who reads may run. And who is B.?—Beauvais! Something told me that this man had a hand in the affair. I remember the look he gave me. A traitor, too.
“Hang my memory, which seems always to forget what I wish to remember and remember what I wish to forget! Where have I met this man Beauvais before? Ah, the countess!” He thrust the message into his breast. “Evidently Madame thinks I am worth consideration; uncommonly pretty bait. Shall I let the play run on, or shall I tell her? Ah! you have two minutes to spare,” he said, as she approached. “But you do not need them,” throwing a deal of admiration into his glance.
“It does not take me long to dress—on occasions.”
“A compliment to me?” he said.
“If you will accept it.”
It was an exhilarating morning, full of forest perfumes. Through the haze the mountains glittered like huge emeralds and amethysts.
“What a day!” said the countess, as they galloped away.
“Aye, for plots and war and love!”
“For plots and war?” demurely. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair as yellow as the silk of corn.
“Well, then, for love.” He shortened his rein. “A propos, have you ever been in love, countess?”
“I? What a question!”
“Have you?”
“N—no! Let us talk of plots and war,” gazing across the valley.
“No; let us talk of love. I am in love, and one afflicted that way wishes a confidant. I appoint you mine.”
“Some rosy-cheeked peasant girl?” laughing.
“Perhaps. Perhaps it's only a—a pantry maid,” with a sly look from the corner of his eyes. Evidently she had not heard. She was still laughing. “I have heard of hermits falling in love with stars, and have laughed. Now I am in the same predicament. I love a star—”
“Operatic? To be sure! Mademoiselle Lenormand of the Royal Vienna is in Bleiberg. How she keeps her age!”
It was Maurice's turn to laugh.
“And that is why you came to Bleiberg! Ah, these opera singers, had I my way, they should all be aged and homely.”
“Countess, you are pulling the bit too hard,” said he. “I noticed yesterday that your horse has a very tender mouth.”
“Thank you.” She slacked the rein. “He was going too close to the ditch. You were saying—”
“No, it was you who were saying that all actresses should be aged and homely. But it is not Mademoiselle Lenormand, it is not the peasant, nor the pantry maid.”
This time she looked up quickly.
“The woman I love is too far away, so I am going to give up thinking of her. Countess, I made a peculiar discovery this morning.”
“A discovery, Monsieur? What is it?”
“Do you see that fork in the road, a mile away? When we reach it and turn I'll tell you what it is. If I told you now it might spoil the ride. What a day, truly! How clear everything is! And the air is like wine.” He drew in deep breaths.
“Let us hurry and reach the fork in the road; my curiosity is stifling me.”
Maurice did not laugh as she expected he would. As she observed the thoughtful frown between his brows, a shiver of dread ran through her. It did not take long to cover the intervening mile. They turned, and the horses fell into a quick step.
“Now, Monsieur; please!”
After all... But he quelled the gentle tremor in his heart. A month ago, had he known her, he might now have told her altogether a different story. He could see that she had not an inkling of what was to come (for he had determined to tell her); and he vaguely wondered if he should bring humiliation to the dainty creature. It would be like nicking a porcelain cup. Her brows were arched inquisitively and her lips puckered....He had had a narrow escape.
He drew the message from his breast, leaned across and handed it to her.
“Why, what is this, Monsieur?”
“Read it and see.” And he busied himself with the tangled mane of his horse. When they had ridden several yards, he heard her voice.
“Here, Monsieur.” The hand was extended, but the face was averted.
“Countess, you are too charming a woman to lend yourself to such schemes.”
There was no reply.
“Did you not volunteer to make me fall in love with you to keep me from interfering with Madame's plans?” It was brutal, but he was compelled to say it.
Silence.
“Did you not?” he persisted. “When one writes such messages as these, one should use an intricate cipher. Had I been other than a prisoner, what I have done would not be the act of a gentleman. But I am a prisoner; I must defend myself. To rob a man through his love! And such a man! He is a very infant in the hands of a woman. He has been a soldier all his life. All women to him are little less than angels; he knows nothing of their treachery, their deceit, their false smiles. It will be an easy victory, or rather it would have been, for I shall do my best to prevent it. Madame is not unknown to me; I have been waiting to see what meant this peculiar house party.
“Perhaps I am now too late. Madame distrusts me. I dare say she has her reasons. She went to you. You were to occupy me. I was young, I liked the society of women, I was gay and careless. She has decked me out as one would deck a monkey (and doubtless she calls me one behind my back), and has offered me a sword to play with.
“In America, when a man puts a sword in his hand, it is to kill somebody. Here—aye, all over the continent, for that matter—swords are baubles for young nobles, used to slash each other in love affairs. I respect and admire you; had I not done so, I should not have spoken. Countess, be frank with me, as frank as I have been with you; have I not guessed rightly?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” her head bowed and her cheeks white. “Yes, yes! it was a miserable game. But I love Madame; I would sacrifice my pride and my heart for her, if need be.”
“I can believe that.”
“And believe me when I say that the moment I saw you, I knew that my conduct was going to be detestable. But I had given my promise. A woman has but little to offer to her country; I have offered my pride, and I am a proud woman, Monsieur. I am ashamed. I am glad that you spoke, for it was becoming unbearable to throw myself at a man whose heart I knew intuitively to be elsewhere.” She raised her eyes, which were filled with a strange luster. “Will you forgive me, Monsieur?”
“With all my heart. For now I know that we shall be friends. You will be relieved of an odious part; for you are too handsome not to have in keeping some other heart besides your own.”
He then began gaily to describe some of his humorous adventures, and continued in this vein till they arrived once more at the chateau. Sometimes the countess laughed, but he could see that her sprightliness was gone. When they came under the porte cochere he sprang from his horse and assisted her to dismount; and he did not relinquish her hand till he had given it a friendly pressure. She stood motionless on the steps, centered a look on him which he failed to interpret, then ran swiftly into the hall, thence to her room, the door of which she bolted.
“It would not be difficult,” he mused, communing with the thought which had come to him. “It would be something real, and not a chimera.”
He turned over the horses to the grooms, and went in search of Fitzgerald to inform him of his discovery; but the Englishman was nowhere to be found. Neither was Madame. Being thirsty, he proceeded to the dining hall. Fadette, the maid, was laying the silver.
“Ah, the `pantry maid,'” he thought. “Good day, Fadette.”
“Does Monsieur wish for something?”
“A glass of water. Thanks!”
She retreated and kept her eyes lowered.
“Fadette, you are charming. Has any one ever told you that?”
“O, Monsieur!” blushing.
“Have they?” lessening the distance between them.
“Sometimes,” faintly. She could not withstand his glance, so she retired a few more steps, only to find herself up with the wall.
With a laugh he sprang forward and caught her face between his hands and imprinted a kiss on her left cheek. Suddenly she wrenched herself loose, uttered a frightened cry and fled down the pantryway.
“What's the matter with the girl?” he muttered aloud. “I wanted to ask her some questions.”
“Ask them of me, Monsieur,” said a voice from the doorway.
Maurice wheeled. It was Madame, but her face expressed nothing. He saw that he had been caught. The humor of the situation got the better of him, and he laughed. Madame ignored this unseemly hilarity.
“Monsieur, is this the way you return my kindness?”
“Permit me to apologize. As to your kindness, I have just discovered that it is of a most dangerous quality.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I could not kiss Madame the countess with the same sense of security as I could the—pantry maid,” bowing.
Just now Madame's face expressed a good deal. “Of what are you talking?” advancing a step.
“I had in mind what our friend, Colonel Beauvais, remarked in his recent dispatch: I know no discrimination. The fact is, I do. I found the dispatch on the floor this morning. Allow me to return it to you. I have kept silent, Madame, because I did not know how to act.”
“You have dared—?” her lips pressed and her eyes thunderous.
“To read it? Aye. I am a prisoner; it was in self-defense. Madame, you do me great honor. A countess! What consideration to the indiscriminate! Au revoir, then, till luncheon;” and he left the room, whistling—
Voici le sabre de mon pere!