Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's departure.
When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said nothing, but pulled
all the quicker at his clay. He wondered at the desire which suddenly
manifested itself. Fly? Why should he fly? The beat of his pulse
answered him.... What a fine thing it was to feel the presence of a
woman--a woman like this! What a fine thing always to experience the
content derived from her nearness!
He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was nothing at
all but a sense of gratefulness. In the dreary picture of his life there
was now an illumined corner. He had ceased to blame her; she was doing
for her country what he, did necessity so will, would do for his. And
after all, he could not war against a woman--a woman like this. His
innate chivalry was too deep-rooted.
How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed him
night and day. Once he had been on the verge of sounding Maurice in
regard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in femininities; but this
would have been an acknowledgment of his ignorance, and pride closed
his mouth. It was all impossible, but then, why should he return to his
loneliness without attempting to find some one to share it with him? The
king was safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was at
ease in that direction. He needed not love, he thought, so much as
sympathy.... Sympathy. He turned over the word in his mind as a gem
merchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel. Sympathy; it was the
key to all he desired--woman's sympathy. There was nothing but ash in
the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to puff.
Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor chords.
She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his voice, to know
and measure its emotion. At times she turned her head and shot a sly
glance at him as he sat there musing. There was a wrinkle of contempt
and amusement lurking at the corners of her eyes. Had Maurice been there
he would have seen it. Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until
doomsday, and never have seen else than their gray fathoms. Minute after
minute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to break
the monotony. She was not sure that the countess could hold Maurice very
long.
“Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?” she asked, in a soft key.
He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill. “Frankly, I was
thinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners here.” He
told the lie rather diffidently.
“Not even forgiveness?” The lids of the gray eyes drooped and the music
ceased.
“Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it is only your
mistress I can not forgive. On the contrary, there is much to thank you
for.”
“Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with her
Highness's wishes.”
He moved uneasily. “It is her will, not yours.”
“Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of Madame the
duchess.” She rose and moved silently to the window and peered out. He
thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not. She was endeavoring to
see where Maurice and the countess were.
“Madame, shall I tell you a secret?”
“A secret? Tell me,” sitting in the chair next to his.
“This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen years.”
“Then you forgive me!” Madame was not only mistress of music but of
tones.
“Yes.”
And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her all about
his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings. Each sentence was a
knife placed in her hands; and as she contemplated his honest face which
could conceal nothing, his earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame
was conscious of a vague distrust of herself. If only he had offered to
fight, she thought. But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all
his weapons of defense.
“Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!” impulsively.
He smiled.
“Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is
antagonistic to you?”
“To me you represent only a beautiful woman.”
“Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend.”
“He is a good teacher. He is one of those men whom I admire. Women have
never mastered him. He knows so much about them.”
“Yes?” a flicker in her eyes.
“Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart. He is a rare man who,
having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart.” He picked up the
pipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill. “As for me, I know nothing
of women, save what I have read in books, and save that I have been too
long without them.”
“And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to love?”
To a man less guileless, this question would not have been in good
taste.
Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.
“What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in your
life?”
“Yes.” He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the candles,
strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, so steadfastly,
that she could not resist. She was annoyed.
“Tell me about her.”
“My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me.”
“I? No; love is sacred.” She had boasted to Maurice that she was without
conscience; she had only smothered it. “Come; is she beautiful?”
“Yes.” These questions disturbed him.
“Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is rich?”
“That does not matter; I am.” He was wishing that Maurice would hurry
back; the desire to fly was returning.
“And she rejected you and sent you to the army?”
“She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the
presumption to ask her.”
“A faint heart, they say--”
“My heart is not faint; it is my tongue.” He rose and wandered about the
room. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head like wine.
“Monsieur,” she said, “is it possible that you have succumbed to the
charms of Madame the countess?”
He laughed. “One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving it.”
“Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!” and Madame laughed. “If it were the countess I
could aid you.”
“Love is not merchandise, to traffic with.”
Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is beaten down
by a tyro's stroke.
“Eh, bien, since it is not the countess--”
He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and moved
to the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face caused her to
shiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning, but she knew that the
shiver was not unmixed with fear.
“Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!” he cried.
“Monsieur, you forget yourself,” for the moment forgetting her part.
“Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you! You
know that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years? They are
well wasted, in the end to love a woman like you.”
Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he had
seized them.
“Monsieur, release me.” She struggled futilely.
“I love you.” He began to draw her from behind the chair.
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” she, cried, genuinely alarmed; “do not forget that
you are a gentleman.”
“I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves.”
Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be subdued by
angry words.
“Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by forcing me
into your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are hurting me.”
He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and quickly.
But for her it was a respite. She had been too precipitate. She brought
together the subtle forces of her mind. She could gain nothing by force;
she must use cunning. To hold him at arm's length, and yet to hold him,
was her desire. She had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All at
once the flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier's
daughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this man was
doubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She read in his eyes
that a moment more and he had kissed her, a thing no man save her father
had ever done.
“O, Monsieur,” she said lightly, “you soldiers are such forward lovers!
You have not even asked me if I love you.” He made a move to regain her
hands. “No, no!” darting behind the chair. “You must not take my hands;
you do not realize how strong you are. I am not sure that my heart
responds to yours.”
“Tell me, what must I do?” leaning across the chair.
“You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or not at
all. What a whirlwind you are!”
“I would to heaven,” with a gesture indicative of despair, “that you
had kept me behind bars and closed doors.” He dropped his hands from the
chair and sought the window, leaning his arms against the central frame.
Madame had fully recovered her composure. She saw her way to the end.
“It is true,” she said, “that I do not love you, but it is also true
that I am not indifferent to you. What proof have I that you really love
me? None, save your declaration; and that is not sufficient for a woman
such as I am. Shall I place my life in your hands for better or for
worse, simply because you say you love me?”
“My love does not reason, Madame.”
She passed over this stroke. “I do not know you; it is not less than
natural for me to doubt you. What proof have I that your declaration
of love is not a scheme to while away your captivity at my expense?
My heart is not one to be taken by storm. There is only one road to my
affections; it is narrow. Other men have made love to me, but they have
hesitated to enter upon this self-same road.”
“Love that demands conditions? I have asked none.”
Madame blushed. “A man offers love; a woman confers it.”
“And what is this narrow road called which leads to your affections? Is
your heart a citadel?”
“It is called sacrifice. Those who dwell in my heart, which you call a
citadel, enter by that road.”
“Sacrifice?” Fervor lighted his face again. “Do you wish my fortune? It
is yours. My life? It is yours. Do you wish me to lead the army of the
duchess into Bleiberg? It shall be done. Sacrifice? I have sacrificed
the best years of youth for nothing; my life has been made up of
sacrifices.”
“Monsieur, if I promised to listen to you here-after, if I promised a
heart that has never known the love of man, if I promised lips that have
never known the lips of any man save my father--” She moved away from
the chair, within an arm's length of him. “If I promised all these
without reservation, would you aid me to give back to the duchess her
own?”
Instantly her arms were pinioned to her sides, and he had drawn her so
close that she could feel his heart beat against her own.
“Have no fear,” he said. The voice was unfamiliar to her ears. “I shall
not kiss you. Let me look into your eyes, Madame, your eyes, and read
the lie which is written there. My fortune and my life are not enough.
Keep your love, Madame; I have no wish to purchase it. What! if I
surrender my honor it is agreed that you surrender yours? A love such as
mine requires a wife. You would have me break my word to the dead and
to the living, and you expect me to believe in your promises! Faugh!” He
pushed her from him, and resumed his stand by the window.
The hate of a thousand ancestors surged into her heart, and she would
have liked to kill him. Mistress! He had dared. He had dared to speak to
her as no other man living or dead had dared. And he lived. All that
was tigerish in her soul rose to the surface; only the thought of the
glittering goal stayed the outburst. She had yet one weapon. A minute
went by, still another; silence. A hand was laid tremblingly on his arm.
“Forgive me! I was wrong. Love me, love me, if you must. Keep your
honor; love me without conditions. I--” She stumbled into the chair,
covered her eyes and fell to weeping.
Fitzgerald, dumfounded and dismayed, looked down at the beautiful head.
He could fight angry words, tempests of wrath--but tears, a woman's
tears, the tears of the woman he loved!
“Madame,” he said gently, “do you love me?”
No answer.
“Madame, for God's sake, do not weep! Do you love me? If you love me--if
you love me--”
She sprang to her feet. Once again she experienced that shiver; again
her conscience stirred.
“I do not know,” she said. “But this I may say: your honor, which you
hold above the price of a woman's love, will be the cause of bloodshed.
Mothers and wives and sisters will execrate your name, brave men will be
sacrificed needlessly. What are the Osians to you? They are strangers.
You will do for them, and uselessly, what you refuse to do for the woman
you profess to love. I abhor bloodshed. Your honor is the offspring of
pride and egotism. Can you not see the inevitable? War will be declared.
You can not help Leopold; but you can save him the degradation of being
expelled from his throne by force of arms. The army of the duchess is
true to its humblest sword. Can you say that for the army of the king?
Would you witness the devastation of a beautiful city, by flame and
sword?
“Monsieur, Austria is with us, and she will abide with us whichever
way we move. Austria, Monsieur, which is Leopold's sponsor. And this
Leopold, is he a man to sit upon a throne? Is he a king in any sense of
the word? Would a king submit to such ignominy as he submits to without
striking a blow? Would he permit his ministers to override him? Would he
permit his army to murmur, his agents to plunder, his people to laugh
at him, if he possessed one kingly attribute? No, no! If you were king,
would you allow these things? No! You would silence all murmurs, you
would disgorge your agents, you would throttle those who dared to laugh.
“Put yourself in the duchess's place. All these beautiful lands are hers
by right of succession; is she wrong to desire them? What does she wish
to accomplish? She wishes to join the kingdom and the duchy, and to make
a great kingdom, as it formerly was. Do you know why Leopold was seated
upon the throne?
“Some day the confederation will decide to divide all these lands into
tidbits, and there will be no one to oppose them. Madame the duchess
wishes to be strong enough to prevent it. And you, Monsieur, are the
grain of sand which stops all this, you and your pride. Not even a
woman's love--There, I have said it!--not even a woman's love--will move
your sense of justice. Go! leave me. Since my love is nothing, since
the sacrifice I make is useless, go; you are free!” The tears which came
into her eyes this time were genuine; tears of chagrin, vexation, and of
a third sensation which still remained a mystery to her.
To him, as she spoke, with her wonderful eyes flashing, a rich color
suffusing her cheeks and throat and temples, the dim candle light
breaking against the ruddy hair; honor or pride, whichever it was, was
well worth the losing. He was a man; it is only the pope who is said to
be infallible. His honor could not save the king. All she had said was
true. If he held to his word there would be war and bloodshed.
On the other hand, if he surrendered, less harm would befall the king,
and the loss of his honor--was it honor?--would be well recompensed for
the remainder of his days by the love of this woman. His long years of
loneliness came back; he wavered. He glanced first at her, then at the
door; one represented all that was desirable in the world, the other
more loneliness, coupled with unutterable regret. Still he wavered, and
finally he fell.
“Madame, will you be my wife?”
“Yes.” And it seemed to her that the word, came to her lips by no
volition of hers. As she had grown red but a moment gone, she now grew
correspondingly pale, and her limbs shook. She had irrevocably committed
herself. “No, no!” as she saw him start forward with outstretched arms,
“not my lips till I am your wife! Not my lips; only my hands!”
He covered them with kisses.
“Hush!” as she stepped back.
It was time. Maurice and the countess entered the room. Maurice
glanced from Madame to Fitzgerald and back to Madame; he frowned. The
Englishman, who had never before had cause to dissemble, caught up his
pipe and fumbled it. This act merely discovered his embarrassment to the
keen eyes of his friend. He had forgotten all about Maurice. What would
he say? Maurice was something like a conscience to him, and his heart
grew troubled.
“Madame,” Maurice whispered to the countess, “I have lost all faith in
you; you have kept me too long under the stars.”
“Confidences?” said Madame, with a swift inquiring glance at the
countess.
“O, no,” said Maurice. “I simply complained that Madame the countess
had kept me too long under the stars. But here is Colonel Mollendorf,
freshly returned from Brunnstadt to inform you that the army is fully
prepared for any emergency. Is not that true, Colonel?” as he beheld
that individual standing in the doorway.
“Yes; but how the deuce--your pardon, ladies!--did you find that out?”
demanded the Colonel.
“I guessed it,” was the answer. “But there will be no need of an army
now. Come, John, the Colonel, who is no relative of the king's minister
of police, has not the trick of concealing his impatience. He has
something important to say to Madame, and we are in the way. Come along,
AEneas, follow your faithful Achates; Thalia has a rehearsal.”
Fitzgerald thrust his pipe into a pocket. “Good night, Madame,” he said
diffidently; “and you, countess.”
“Good night, Colonel,” sang out Maurice over his shoulder, and together
the pair climbed the stairs.
Fitzgerald was at a loss how to begin, for something told him that
Maurice would demand an explanation, though the affair was none of
his concern. He filled his pipe, fired it and tramped about the room.
Sometimes he picked up the end of a window curtain and felt of it;
sometimes he posed before one of the landscape oils.
“You have something on your mind,” said Maurice, pulling off his hussar
jacket and kicking it across the room.
“Madame has promised to be my wife.”
“And the conditions?” curtly.
Fitzgerald pondered over the other's lack of surprise. “What would you
do if you loved a woman and she promised to be your wife?”
“I'd marry her,” sitting down at the table.
“What would you do in my place, and Madame had promised to marry you?”
puffing quickly.
“I'd marry her,” answered Maurice, banging his fist on the table, “even
if all the kings and queens of Europe rose up against me. I would marry
her, if I had to bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar and
force the priest at the point of a pistol, which, in all probability, is
what you will have to do.”
“I love her,” sullenly.
“Do you know who she is?”
“No.”
“Would it make any difference?”
“No. Who is she?”
“She is a woman without conscience; she is a woman who, to gain her
miserable ends, will stop neither at falsehood, deceit nor bloodshed. Do
you want me to tell you more? She is--”
“Maurice, tell me nothing which will cause me to regret your friendship.
I love her; she has promised to be my wife.”
“She will ruin you.”
“She has already done that,” laconically.
“Do you mean to tell me--”
“Yes! For the promise of her love I am dishonored. For the privilege
of kissing her lips I have sold my honor. To call her mine, I would go
through hell. God! do you know what it is to be lonely, to starve in
God-forsaken lands, to dream of women, to long for them?”
“And the poor paralytic king?”
“What is he to me?”
“And your father?”
“What are my dead father's wishes? Maurice, I am mad!”
“You are a very sick man,” Maurice replied crossly. “What's to become of
all these vows--”
“You are wasting your breath! Do you remember what Rochefoucauld said
of Madame de Longueville?--`To win her heart, to delight her beautiful
eyes, I have taken up arms against the king; I would have done the same
against the gods!' Is she not worth it all?” with a gesture of his arms
which sent the live coals of his pipe comet-like across the intervening
space. “Is she not worth it all?”
“Who?--Madame de Longueville? I thought she was dead these two hundred
years!”
“Damn it, Maurice!”
“I will, if you say so. The situation is equal to a good deal of plain,
honest damning.” Maurice banged his fist again. “John, sit down and
listen to me. I'll not sit still and see you made a fool. Promises?
This woman will keep none. When she has wrung you dry she will fling
you aside. At this moment she is probably laughing behind your back.
You were brought here for this purpose. Threats and bribes were without
effect. Love might accomplish what the other two had failed to do. You
know little of the ways of the world. Do you know that this house party
is scandalous, for all its innocence? Do you know that Madame's name
would be a byword were it known that we have been here more than two
weeks, alone with two women? Who but a woman that feels herself above
convention would dare offer this affront to society? Do you know why
Madame the countess came? Company for Madame? No; she was to play make
love to me to keep me out of the way. Ass that I was, I never suspected
till too late! Madame's name is not Sylvia Amerbach; it is--”
The door opened unceremoniously and in walked the Colonel.
“Your voices are rather high, gentlemen,” he said calmly, and sat down
in an easy chair.