The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who, lonely and
restless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of innocent amusement.
He was none the worse for his unintended bath; indeed, if anything,
he was much the better for it. His imagination was excited. It was not
every day that a man could, at one and the same time, fall out of a boat
and into the presence of a princess of royal blood.
He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two utterances
recurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration like the bouquet
of old wine. He had told her that she was beautiful, indirectly, it was
true; she had accepted his friendship, also indirectly, it was true. Now
the logical sequence of all this was--but he broke into a light laugh.
What little vanity he possessed was without conceit. Princesses of royal
blood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and besides, she was to
be married on the twentieth of the month.
He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion. It was a
charming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope of gowns
and uniforms. Beautiful faces flashed past him. There were in the air
the vague essences of violet, rose and heliotrope. Sometimes he caught
the echo of low laughter or the snatch of a gay song. The light of
the lamps shot out on the crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of
quivering flame, which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and
afar twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which rested
partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.
The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and Maurice
yielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned over the pavilion
rail, and out of the blackness below he endeavored to conjure up the
face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who had danced with him at the embassies
in Vienna, fenced and ridden with him, till--till--with a gesture of
impatience he flung away the end of his cigar.
Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate he
saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the Princess
Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose lips were as red
as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice was sweeter than that
throbbing up from the 'cello. If he thought much more of her, there
would be a logical sequence on his side. He laughed again--with an
effort--and settled back in his chair to renew his interest in the
panorama revolving around him.
“They certainly know how to live in these countries,” he thought,
“for all their comic operas. All I need, to have this fairy scene made
complete, is a woman to talk to. By George, what's to hinder me from
finding one?” he added, seized by the spirit of mischief. He turned
his head this way and that. “Ah! doubtless there is the one I'm looking
for.”
Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray. Her
back was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful contours of her
figure. She wore a gray alpine hat, below the rim of which rebellious
little curls escaped, curls of a fine red-brown, which, as they trailed
to the nape of the firm white neck, lightened into a ruddy gold. Her
delicate head was turned aside, and to all appearances her gaze was
directed to the entrance to the pavilion. A heavy blue veil completely
obscured her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear and
the shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much. To a man
there is always a mystery lurking behind a veil. So he rose, walked past
her, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair opposite to hers.
The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd did not disturb him.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle,” he said, politely lifting his hat.
She straightened haughtily. “Monsieur,” she said, resentment,
consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her tones, “I
did not give you permission to sit down. You are impertinent!”
“O, no,” Maurice declared. “I am not impertinent. I am lonesome. In all
Bleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel waiters, and
they are uninteresting. Grant me the privilege of conversing with you
for a moment. We shall never meet again; and I should not know you if we
did. Whether you are old or young, plain or beautiful, it matters not.
My only wish is to talk to a woman, to hear a woman's voice.”
“Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your nurse?”
The attitude which accompanied these words was anything but assuring.
He, however, evinced no alarm. He even laughed. “That was good! We shall
get along finely, I am sure.”
“Monsieur,” she said, rising, “I repeat that I do not desire your
company, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable effrontery.”
“I beseech you!” implored Maurice, also rising. “I am a foreigner,
lonesome, unhappy, thousands of miles from home--”
“You are English?” suddenly. She stood with the knuckle of her
forefinger on her lips as if meditating. She sat down.
Maurice, greatly surprised, also sat down.
“English?” he repeated. His thought was: “What the deuce! This is the
third time I have been asked that. Who is this gay Lothario the women
seem to be expecting?” To her he continued: “And why do you ask me
that?”
“Perhaps it is your accent. And what do you wish to say to me,
Monsieur?” It was a voice of quality; all the anger had gone from it.
She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms, and through the veil
he caught the sparkle of a pair of wonderful eyes. “Let us converse in
English,” she added. “It is so long since I have had occasion to speak
in that tongue.” She repeated her question.
“O, I had no definite plan outlined,” he answered; “just generalities,
with the salt of repartee to season.” He pondered over this sudden
transition from wrath to mildness. An Englishman? Very well; it might
grow interesting.
“Is it customary among the English to request to speak to strangers
without the usual formalities of an introduction?”
“I can not say that it is,” he answered truthfully enough; “but the
procedure is never without a certain charm and excitement.”
“Ah; then you were led to address me merely by the love of adventure?”
“That is it; the love of adventure. I should not have spoken to you had
you not worn the veil.” He remarked that her English was excellent.
“You differ from the average Englishman, who is usually wrapt up
in himself and has no desire to talk to strangers. You have been a
soldier.”
The evolutions of his cane ceased. “How in the world did you guess
that?” surprised beyond measure.
“Perhaps there is something suggestive in your shoulders.”
He tried to peer behind the veil, but in vain. “Am I speaking to one I
have met before?”
“I believe not; indeed, sir, I am positive.”
“I have been a soldier, but my shoulders did not tell you that.”
“Perhaps I have the gift of clairvoyance,” gazing again toward the
entrance.
“Or perhaps you have been to Vienna.”
“Who knows? Most Englishmen are, or have been, soldiers.”
“That is true.” Inwardly, “There's my friend the Englishman again. She's
guessing closer than she knows. Curious; she has mistaken me for some
one she does not know, if that is possible.” He was somewhat in a
haze. “Well, you have remarkable eyes. However, let us talk of a more
interesting subject; for instance, yourself. You, too, love adventure,
that is, if I interpret the veil rightly.”
“Yes; I like to see without being seen. But, of course, behind this love
of adventure which you possess, there is an important mission.”
“Ah!” he thought; “you are not quite sure of me.” Aloud, “Yes, I came
here to witness the comic opera.”
“The comic opera? I do not understand?”
“I believed there was going to be trouble between the duchy and the
kingdom, but unfortunately the prima donna has refused the part.”
“The prima donna!” in a muffled voice. “Whom do you mean?”
“Son Altesse la Grande Duchesse! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'” And he
whistled a bar from Offenbach, his eyes dancing.
“Sir!--I!--you do wrong to laugh at us!” a flash from the half-hidden
eyes.
“Forgive me if I have offended you, but I--”
“Ah, sir, but you who live in a powerful country think we little folk
have no hearts, that we have no wrongs to redress, no dreams of conquest
and of power. You are wrong.”
“And whose side do you defend?”
“I am a woman,” was the equivocal answer.
“Which means that you are uncertain.”
“I have long ago made up my mind.”
“Wonderful! I always thought a woman's mind was like a time-table,
subject to change without notice. So you have made up your mind?”
“I was born with its purpose defined,” coldly.
“Ah, now I begin to doubt.”
“What?” with a still lower degree of warmth.
“That you are a woman. Only goddesses do not change their
minds--sometimes. Well, then you are on the weaker side.”
“Or the stronger, since there are two sides.”
“And the stronger?” persistently.
“The side which is not the weaker. But the subject is what you English
call 'taboo.' It is treading on delicate ground to talk politics in the
open--especially in Bleiberg.”
“What a diplomat you would make!” he cried with enthusiasm. Certainly
this was a red-letter day in his calendar. This adventure almost
equalled the other, and, besides, in this instance, his skin was dry; he
could enjoy it more thoroughly. Who could this unknown be? “If only you
understood the mystery with which you have enshrouded yourself!”
“I do.” She drew the veil more firmly about her chin.
“Grant me a favor.”
“I am talking to you, sir.”
This candor did not disturb him. “The favor I ask is that you will lift
the corner of your veil; otherwise you will haunt me.”
“I am doomed to haunt you, then. If I should lift the corner of my veil
something terrible would happen.”
“What! Are you as beautiful as that?”
There was a flash of teeth behind the veil, followed by the ripple of
soft laughter. “It is difficult to believe you to be English. You are
more like one of those absurd Americans.”
Maurice did not like the adjective. “I am one of them,” wondering what
the effect of this admission would be. “I am not English, but of the
brother race. Forgive me if I have imposed on you, but it was your
fault. You said that I was English, and I was too lonesome to enlighten
you.”
“You are an American?” She began to tap her gloved fingers against the
table.
“Yes.”
Then, to his astonishment, she gave way to laughter, honest and hearty.
“How dense of me not to have known the moment you addressed me! Who
but the American holds in scorn custom's formalities and usages? Your
grammar is good, so good that my mistake is pardonable. The American is
always like the terrible infant; and you are a choice example.”
Maurice was not so pleased as he might have been. His ears burned.
Still, he went forward bravely. “A man never pretends to be an
Englishman without getting into trouble.”
“I did not ask to speak to you. No one ever pretends to be an American.
Why is it you are always ashamed of your country?” with malice
aforethought.
Maurice experienced the sting of many bees. “I see that your experience
is limited to impostors. I, Mademoiselle, am proud of my country, the
great, free land which stands aside from the turmoil and laughs at your
petty squabbles, your kings, your princes. Laugh at me; I deserve it for
not minding my own business, but do not laugh at my country.” His face
was flushed; he was almost angry. It was not her words; it was the
contempt with which she had invested them. But immediately he was
ashamed of his outburst. “Ah, Mademoiselle, you have tricked me; you
have found the vulnerable part in my armor. I have spoken like a child.
Permit me to apologize for my apparent lack of breeding.” He rose,
bowed, and made as though to depart.
“Sit down, Monsieur,” she said, picking up her French again. “I forgive
you. I do more; I admire. I see that your freak had nothing behind it
but mischief. No woman need fear a man who colors when his country is
made the subject of a jest.”
All his anger evaporated. This was an invitation, and he accepted it. He
resumed his seat.
“The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I have
committed a transgression, but the veil tempted me.”
“It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am waiting
for some one. You may talk till that person comes.” Her voice was now
in its natural tone; and he was convinced that if her face were half
as sweet, she must possess rare beauty. “Hush!” as the band began to
breathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They listened until the music ceased.
“Ah!” said he rapturously, “the polonaise! When you hear it, does there
not recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours, the sibilant murmur
of fragrant night winds through the crisp foliage, the faint call
of Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-fairies dancing on the
spider-webs, the glint of the dew on the roses, the far-off music of the
surges tossing impotently on the sands, the forgetfulness of time and
place and care, and not a cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, the
polonaise!”
“Surely you must be a poet!” declared the Veil, when this panegyric was
done.
“No,” said he modestly, “I never was quite poor enough for that exalted
position.” He had recovered his good humor.
“Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when not in
search of--comic operas?”
“I serve Ananias.”
“Ananias?” A pause. “Ah, you are a diplomat?”
“How clever of you to guess.”
“Yours is a careless country,” observed the Veil.
“Careless?” mystified.
“Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There are
hopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will become bald and
reserved; you will not speak to strangers, to while away an idle hour;
for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise, to tell you that it is a dangerous
practice.”
“And do I look so very young?”
“Your beard is that of a boy.”
“David slew Goliath.”
“At least you have a ready tongue,” laughing.
“And you told me that I had been a soldier.”
But to this she had nothing to say.
“I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have been a
soldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no cushion sword. Youth?
'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides, it is an excellent disguise.”
For some time she remained pensive.
“You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle.”
“Do you like adventure?”
“I subsist on it.”
“You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use of arms?”
“They tell me so,” modestly. What was coming?
“I have some influence. May I trust you?”
“On my honor,” puzzled, yet eager.
“There may be a comic opera, as you call it. War is not so impossible as
to be laughed at. The dove may fly away and the ravens come.”
“Who in thunder might this woman be?” he thought.
“And,” went on the Veil, “an extra saber might be used. Give me your
address, in case I should find it necessary to send for you.”
Now Maurice was a wary youth. Under ordinary circumstances he would have
given a fictitious address to this strange sybil with the prophecy of
war; for he had accosted her only in the spirit of fun. But here was the
key which he had been seeking, the key to all that had brought him to
Bleiberg. Intrigue, adventure, or whatever it was, and to whatever end,
he plunged into it. He drew out a card case, selected a card on which he
wrote “Room 12, Continental,” and passed it over the table. She read it,
and slipped it into her purse.
Maurice thought: “Who wouldn't join the army with such recruiting
officers?”
While the pantomime took place, a man pushed by Maurice's chair and
crossed over to the table recently occupied by him. He sat down, lit
a short pipe, rested his feet on the lowest rung of the ladder-like
railing, and contemplated the western hills, which by now were enveloped
in moon mists. Neither Maurice nor his mysterious vis-a-vis remarked
him. Indeed, his broad back afforded but small attraction. And if he
puffed his pipe fiercely, nobody cared, since the breeze carried the
smoke waterward.
After putting the card into her purse, Mademoiselle of the Veil's gaze
once more wandered toward the entrance, and this time it grew fixed.
Maurice naturally followed it, and he saw a tall soldier in fatigue
dress elbowing his way through the crush. Many moved aside for him;
those in uniform saluted.
“Monsieur,” came from behind the veil, “you may go now. I dismiss you.
If I have need of you I promise to send for you.”
He stood up. “I thank you for the entertainment and the promise you
extend. I shall be easily found,” committing himself to nothing. “I
suppose you are a person of importance in affairs.”
“It is not unlikely. I see that you love adventure for its own sake,
for you have not asked me if it be the duchy or the kingdom. Adieu,
Monsieur,” with a careless wave of the gray-gloved hand. “Adieu!”
He took his dismissal heroically and shot a final glance at the
approaching soldier. His brows came together.
“Where,” he murmured, “have I seen that picturesque countenance before?
Not in Europe; but where?” He caught the arm of a passing gendarme. “Who
is that gentleman in fatigue uniform, coming this way?”
“That, Monsieur,” answered the gendarme in tones not unmixed with awe,
“is Colonel Beauvais of the royal cuirassiers.”
“Thanks.... Beauvais; I do not remember the name. Truly I have had
experiences to-day. And for what house is Mademoiselle of the Veil?
Ravens? War? `Voici le sabre de mon pyre!'” and with a gay laugh he went
his way.
Meanwhile Colonel Beauvais arrived at the table, tipped his hat to the
Veil, who rose and laid a hand on his arm. He guided her through the
pressing crowds.
“Ah, Madame,” he said, “you are very brave to choose such a rendezvous.”
“Danger is a tonic to the ill-spirited,” was the reply.
“If aught should happen to you--”
“It was in accord with her wishes that I am here. She suffers from
impatience; and I would risk much to satisfy her whims.”
“So would I, Madame; even life.” There was a tremor of passion in his
voice, but she appeared not to notice it. “Here is a nook out of the
lights; we may talk here with safety.”
“And what is the news?” she asked.
“This: The man remains still in obscurity. But he shall be found.
Listen,” and his voice fell into a whisper.
“Austria?” Mademoiselle of the Veil pressed her hands together in
excitement. “Is it true?”
“Did I not promise you? It is so true that the end is in sight.
Conspiracy is talked openly in the streets, in the cafes, everywhere.
The Osians will be sand in the face of a tidal wave. A word from me,
and Kronau follows it. It all would be so easy were it not for the
archbishop.”
“The archbishop?” contemptuously.
“Ay, Madame; he is a man so deep, with a mind so abyssmal, that I would
give ten years of my life for a flash of his thoughts. He has some
project; apparently he gives his whole time to the king. He loves this
weak man Leopold; he has sacrificed the red hat for him, for the
hat would have taken him to Italy, as we who procured it intended it
should.”
“The archbishop? Trust me; one month from now he will be recalled. That
is the news I have for you.”
“You have taken a weight from my mind. What do you think in regard to
the rumor of the prince and the peasant girl?”
“It afforded me much amusement. You are a man of fine inventions.”
“Gaze toward the upper end of the pavilion, the end which we have
just left. Yes--there. I am having the owner of those broad shoulders
watched. That gendarme leaning against the pillar follows him wherever
he goes.”
“Who is he?”
“That I am trying to ascertain. This much--he is an Englishman.”
Mademoiselle of the Veil laughed. “Pardon my irrelevancy, but the
remembrance of a recent adventure of mine was too strong.”
Maurice could not regain his interest in the scene. He strolled in and
out of the moving groups, but no bright eyes or winning smiles allured
him. Impelled by curiosity, he began to draw near the shadowed nook.
Curiosity in a journalist is innate, and time nor change can efface
it. Curiosity in those things which do not concern us is wrong. Ethics
disavows the practice, though philosophy sustains it. Perhaps in this
instance Maurice was philosophical, not ethical. Perhaps he wanted
to hear the woman's voice again, which was excusable. Perhaps it was
neither the one nor the other, but fate, which directed his footsteps.
Certain it is that the subsequent adventures would never have happened
had he gone about his business, as he should have done.
“Who is this who stares at us?” asked Beauvais, with a piercing glance
and a startled movement of his shoulders.
“A disciple of Pallas and a pupil of Mars,” was the answer. “I have been
recruiting, Colonel. There is sharpness sometimes in new blades. Do not
draw him with your eyes.”
The Colonel continued his scrutiny, however, and there was an ugly
droop at the corners of his mouth, though it was partly hidden under his
mustache.
Maurice, aware that he was not wanted, passed along, having in mind to
regain his former seat by the railing.
“Colonel,” he mused, “your face grows more familiar every moment. It was
not associated with agreeable things. But, what were they? Hang it! you
shall have a place in my thoughts till I have successfully labeled you.
Humph! Some one seems to have appropriated my seat.”
He viewed with indecision the broad back of the interloper, who at that
moment turned his head. At the sight of that bronzed profile Maurice
gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. He stepped forward and
dropped his hand on the stranger's shoulder.
“John Fitzgerald, or henceforth garlic shall be my salad!” he cried in
loud, exultant tones.