At no time during the afternoon did Maurice find the opportunity to
speak privately to Fitzgerald. Madame hovered about, chatting, smiling
and humming snatches of song. She seemed to have formed a sudden
attachment for Maurice; that is to say, she could not bear to lose sight
of him, not for the briefest moment.
He swallowed his chagrin, for he could but confess that it was
sugar-coated. Madame had at last considered his case, and had labeled
him dangerous. Somehow a man always likes to be properly valued. It
re-establishes his good opinion of himself.
Well, well; however affectionate Madame might be, she could scarcely
carry it beyond the threshold of his chamber, and he was determined to
retire at an early hour. But he had many things to learn.
Fitzgerald was abandoned to the countess, who had still much color to
regain. From time to time the Englishman looked over his shoulder to see
what was going on between Madame and his friend, and so missed half of
what the countess said.
“Come,” thought Maurice, “it is time I made a play.”
The blackberries were ripe along the stone walls which surrounded the
chateau. Maurice wandered here and there, plucking what fruit he could
find. Now and then he would offer a branch to Madame. At length, as
though by previous arrangement with Madame, the countess led Fitzgerald
around to the other side of the chateau, so that Madame and Maurice were
alone. Immediately the smile, which had rested on her lips, vanished.
Her companion was gazing mountainward, and cogitating. How fared those
in Bleiberg?
“What a beautiful world it is!” said a low, soft voice close to his ear.
Maurice resumed his berry picking.
“What exquisite tints in the skies!” went on the voice; “what matchless
color in the forests!”
Maurice plucked a berry, ate it, and smacked his lips. It was a good
berry.
“But what a terrible thing it would be if one should die suddenly, or
be thrown into a windowless dungeon, shut out from all these splendid
reaches?”
Maurice plucked another berry, but he did not eat it. Instinctively he
turned--and met a pair of eyes as hard and cold and gray as new steel.
“That,” said he, “sounds like a threat.”
“And if it were, Monsieur, and if it were?”
“If it were, I should say that you had discovered that I know too much.
I suspected from the first; the picture merely confirmed my suspicions.
I see now that it was thoughtless in me not to have told my friend; but
it is not too late.”
“And why, I ask, have I not suppressed you before this?”
“Till to-day, Madame, you had not given me your particular
consideration.” Then, as if the conversation was not interesting him, he
returned to the berries. “There's a fine one there. It's a little high;
but then!” He tiptoed, drew the branch from the wall, and snatched the
luscious fruit. “Ah!”
“Monsieur, attend to me; the berries can wait.”
“Madame, the life of a good blackberry is short.”
“To begin with, you say that I did not show you consideration. Few
princes have been shown like consideration.”
“I was wrong. It is not every man that has a countess--and a pretty one,
too!--thrown at his head.”
Madame was temporarily silenced by this retort; it upset her
calculations. She scrutinized the clean, smooth face, and she saw lines
which had hitherto escaped her notice. She was at last convinced that
she had to contend with a man, a man who had dealt with both men and
women. How deep was he? Could honors, such as she could give, and
money plumb the depths?... He was an American. She smiled the smile of
duplicity.
“Monsieur,” she said, “do you lack wealth?”
“Yes, I lack it; but that is not to say that I desire it.”
“Perhaps it is honors you desire?”
“Honors? To what greater honor may I aspire than that which is written
in my passports?”
“What is written in your passports?”
“That I am a citizen of the United States of America. It would not be
good taste in me to accept honors save those that my country may choose
to confer.”
Again Madame found her foil turned aside. She began to lose patience.
Her boot patted the sod. “Monsieur, since the countess is not high
enough, since gold and honors have no charm, listen.”
“I am listening, Madame.”
“I permit you to witness the comic opera, but I shall allow no prompting
from outsiders.”
“Madame, do you expect me to sit calmly by and see my friend made a
fool?” He spoke warmly and his eyes remained steadfast.
“Certainly that is what you shall do,” coldly.
“Madame, you are a beautiful woman; heaven has endowed you with
something more than beauty. Is it possible that the gods forgot to mix
conscience in the mold?”
“Conscience? Royalty knows none.”
“Ah, Madame, wait till you are royal.”
“Take care. You have not felt my anger.”
“I would rather that than your love.”
She marveled at her patience.
“If you have no conscience, Madame, I have. I shall warn him. You shall
not dishonor him if I can prevent it. You wish to win his love, and you
have gauged the possibilities of it so accurately that you know you will
have but to ask, be it his honor or his life. A far finer thing it would
be for you to win your crown at the point of the sword. There would be
a little glory in it then. But even then, the world would laugh at you.
For you would be waging war against a lonely woman, a paralytic king, a
prelate who is a man of peace. What resistance could these three offer?
“But to gain your ends by treachery and deceit, to rob a man of his
brains and heart, laughing the while in your sleeve; to break his life
and make him curse all women, from Eve to you and the mother who bore
him! Ah, Madame, let me plead with you. Give him his liberty. Let him
go back and complete the task imposed on him. Do not break his life,
for life is more than a crown; do not compel him to sully his honor, for
honor is more than life.
“Your cause is just, I will admit, but do not tarnish it by such
detestable means. 'Tis true that a crown to me signifies nothing, but
life and honor are common to us both. With all his strength and courage,
my friend is helpless. All his life he has been without the society of
women. If he should love you--God help him! His love would be without
calculation, without reason, blind and furious. Madame, do not destroy
him.”
Sometimes, in the passing, we are stopped by the sound of a voice. It
is not the words it utters, nor the range nor tone. It is something
indefinable, and, though we can not analyze it, we are willing to follow
wherever it leads. Such a voice Maurice possessed, though he was totally
ignorant of its power. But Madame, as she listened, felt its magic
influence, and for a moment the spell rendered her mute.
“Monsieur, you have missed your vocation; you plead well, indeed.
Unfortunately, I can not hear; my ears are of wax. No, no! I have
nourished these projects too long; they are a part of me. Laughed at,
you say? Have I not been laughed at from one end of the continent to
the other?” passionately. “It is my turn now, and woe to those who have
dared to laugh. I shall sweep all obstacles away; nothing shall stop me.
Mine the crown is, and mine it shall be. I am a woman, and I wished to
avoid bloodshed. But not even that shall stay me; not even love!” Her
bosom heaved, her hands were clenched, and her gray eyes flashed like
troubled waters in the sunlight.
“Madame, if you love him--”
“Well?” proudly.
“No, I am wrong. If you loved him you would prize above all else this
honor of which you intend to rob him.”
“I brought you here not to discuss whether I am right or wrong. Look
about you.”
Maurice was somewhat troubled to discover several troopers lounging
about just out of earshot. They were so arranged as to prevent egress
from the park. He looked thoughtfully at the wall. It was eight feet in
height.
Madame saw the look, and said, “Corporal!”
There was a noise on the other side of the wall, and presently a head
bobbed up.
“Madame?” inquired the head.
“Nothing. I wished to know if you were at your post.” She turned
to Maurice, who was puzzled to know what all this was preamble to.
“Monsieur Carewe, I never forget details. I had an idea that when
I submitted my proposals to you, you might be tempted to break your
parole.”
Maurice gnawed his lip. “Proceed, Madame.”
“There are only two. If you do not promise here and now in no way to
interfere with my plans, these troopers will convey you to Brunnstadt,
where you will be kept in confinement until the succession to the
throne is decided one way or the other. The other proposal is, if you
promise--and I have faith in your word--the situation will continue the
same as at present. Choose, Monsieur. Which is it to be?”
The devil gleamed in his eyes. He remained silent.
“Well! Well!” impatiently.
“I accept the alternative,” with bad grace. “If I made a dash--”
“You would be shot; those were my orders.”
“And if I went to prison--”
“You would miss what you call the comic opera, but which to me is all
there is in life. You say that I have read your friend well. That is
true. Do you think that it is easy for me to lessen myself in my own
eyes? No woman lives who is prouder than I. Remember, you are not to
hint at what I propose to do, nor who I am. See! It is all because you
read something which was not intended for your eyes. Be my friend, or be
my enemy, it is a matter of indifference to me. You have only yourself
to blame. Had you gone about your business and not intruded where
you were not wanted, neither you nor your friend would be here. No
interference from you, Monsieur; that is the understanding.” She raised
her hand and made a sign, and the troopers took themselves off. “Now you
may go--to the countess, if you wish; though I dare say that she will
not find you in the best of tempers.”
“I dare say she won't,” said Maurice.
Fitzgerald sat by a window in the music room. He had resurrected from no
one knew where a clay with a broken stem. There was a thoughtful cast
to his countenance, and he puffed away, blissfully unconscious of, or
indifferent to, the close proximity of the velvet curtains. A thrifty
housewife, could she have seen the smoke rise and curl and lose itself
in the folds above, would have experienced the ecstasy of anxiety and
perturbation. But there was no thrifty housewife at the Red Chateau,
nothing but dreams of conquest and revenge.
Twilight was gathering about, soft-footed and shadowful. Long reaches
of violet and vermilion clouds pressed thickly on the western line of
hills. The mists began to rise, changing from opal to sapphire. The
fantastic melodies of wandering gypsy songs went throbbing through the
room; rollicking gavots, Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes.
As the music grew sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.
Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness returned
and overwhelmed him. They marshaled past, thirteen in all; and there
were glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains, men moving in the blur
of smoke, long watches in the night. Thirteen years in God-forsaken
outposts, with never a sight of a woman's face, the sound of her voice,
the swish of her gown, nor a touch of the spell which radiates from her
presence.
He had never made friends. Others had come up to him and passed him, and
had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt of the cold,
the heat, the watchfulness. He had made his bed; he was too much his
father's son to whine because it was hard. Often he used to think how a
few words, from a pride humbled, would have removed the barrier. But the
words never came, nor was the pride ever humbled.
Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months of
pleasure. He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta, where his
Colonel, who had received secret information concerning him, had treated
him like a gentleman, and had employed him as regimental interpreter,
for he spoke French and German and a smattering of Indian tongues.
During his lonely hours he had studied, for he knew that some day he
would be called upon to administer a vast fortune.... He laid the pipe
on the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin in his
hands. What a fool he had been to waste the best years of his life! His
father would have opened to him a boundless career; he would have seen
the world under the guidance of a master hand. And here he was to-day,
the possessor of millions, a beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a
wanderer from place to place.
The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the memories
which it would arouse would be too bitter.... The shade of Beethoven
touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin. But he was
thinking only of his loneliness, and the marvelous touch of the hands
which evoked the great spirits was lost upon him.
Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners. He had still much good
humor to recover. He pulled at his lips, and wondered from time to time
what was going on in Fitzgerald's head. Poor devil! he thought; could
he resist this woman whose accomplishments were so varied that at one
moment she could overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to some
strolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could entertain for
her nothing but admiration, what hope was there for the Englishman? What
a woman! She savored of three hundred years off. To plan by herself, to
arrange the minutest detail, and above all to wait patiently! Patience
has never been the attribute of a woman of power; Madame possessed both
patience and power.
The countess was seated in another dark corner. Suddenly she arose and
said, in a voice blended with great trouble and impatience: “For pity's
sake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play something lively; I am sad.”
The music stopped, but presently began again. Maurice leaned forward.
Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise. He laughed silently. He was in
Madame's thoughts. It struck him, however, that the notes had a defiant
ring.
“Lights!” called Madame, rising from the stool.
Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired. Maurice, when
his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the three faces.
Madame's was radiant. Fitzgerald's was a mixture--a comical mixture--of
content and enjoyment, but the countess's was as colorless as the wax
in the candlesticks. He asked himself what other task she had to perform
that she should take so long to recover her roses. Had the knowledge of
her recent humiliation been too much for her?
She was speaking to him. “Monsieur, will you walk with me in the park? I
am faint.”
“Are you ill, countess?” asked Madame, coming up and placing her hand
under the soft round chin of the other and striving to read her eyes.
“Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive me.”
When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice: “Monsieur,
I have brought you here to tell you something. I fear that your friend
is lost, for you can do nothing.”
“Not even if I break my word?” he asked.
“It would do no good.”
“Why?”
“It is too late,” lowly. “I have been Madame's understudy too long not
to read. Forgive me. I was to keep you apart; I have done so. The
evil can not now be repaired. Your hope is that Madame has not fully
considered his pride.”
“Has she any regard for him?”
“Sentiment?--love?” She uttered a short, incredulous laugh. “Madame has
brain, not heart. Could a woman with a heart plan as she plans?”
“Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of--”
“Monsieur, do not be unkind. I have asked your forgiveness. Let us not
talk; let us be silent and listen to the night;” and she leaned over the
terrace balustrade.
Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed hair blew
across his nostrils. ... The princess was at best a dream. It was not
likely that he ever would speak to her again. The princess was a poem,
unlettered and unrhymed. But here, close to him, was a bit of beautiful
material prose. The hair again blew out toward him and he moved his
lips. She heard the vague sound and lifted her head.
Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the stables.
There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.