THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST
Baron de Grost was enjoying what he had confidently looked forward to as
an evening's relaxation, pure and simple. He sat in one of the front
rows of the stalls of the Alhambra, his wife by his side and an
excellent cigar in his mouth. An hour or so before he had been in
telephonic communication with Paris, had spoken with Sogrange himself,
and received his assurance of a calm in political and criminal affairs
amounting almost to stagnation. It was out of the season, and though his
popularity was as great as ever, neither he nor his wife had any social
engagements. Hence this evening at a music-hall, which Peter, for his
part, was finding thoroughly amusing.
The place was packed--some said owing to the engagement of Andrea Korust
and his brother, others to the presence of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire
in her wonderful _Danse des Apaches_. The violinist that night had a
great reception. Three times he was called before the curtain; three
times he was obliged to reiterate his grateful but immutable resolve
never to yield to the nightly storm which demanded more from a man who
has given of his best. Slim, with the worn face and hollow eyes of a
genius, he stood and bowed his thanks, but when he thought the time had
arrived he disappeared, and though the house shook for minutes
afterwards, nothing could persuade him to reappear.
Afterward came the turn which, notwithstanding the furore caused by
Andrea Korust's appearance, was generally considered to be equally
responsible for the packed house--the Apache dance of Mademoiselle
Sophie Celaire. Peter sat slightly forward in his chair as the curtain
went up. For a time he seemed utterly absorbed by the performance.
Violet glanced at him once or twice curiously. It began to occur to her
that it was not so much the dance as the dancer in whom her husband was
interested.
"You have seen her before--this Mademoiselle Celaire?" she whispered.
Peter nodded.
"Yes," he admitted; "I have seen her before."
The dance proceeded. It was like many others of its sort, only a little
more daring, a little more finished. Mademoiselle Celaire, in her
tight-fitting, shabby black frock, with her wild mass of hair, her
flashing eyes, her seductive gestures, was, without doubt, a marvellous
person. The Baron watched her every movement with absorbed attention.
Even when the curtain went down he forgot to clap. His eyes followed her
off the stage. Violet shrugged her shoulders. She was looking very
handsome herself in a black velvet dinner gown, and a hat so exceedingly
Parisian that no one had had the heart to ask her to remove it.
"My dear Peter," she remarked, reprovingly, "a moderate amount of
admiration for that very agile young lady I might, perhaps, be inclined
to tolerate, but, having watched you for the last quarter of an hour, I
am bound to confess that I am becoming jealous."
"Of Mademoiselle Celaire?" he asked.
"Of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire."
He leaned a little towards her. His lips were parted; he was about to
make a statement or a confession. Just then a tall commissionaire leaned
over from behind and touched him on the shoulder.
"For Monsieur le Baron de Grost," he announced, handing Peter a note.
Peter glanced towards his wife.
"You permit me?" he murmured, breaking the seal.
Violet shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly. Her husband was already
absorbed in the few lines hastily scrawled across the sheet of notepaper
which he held in his hand:
[Illustration: 4] "Monsieur Baron de Grost. [Illustration: backward
4]
"DEAR MONSIEUR LE BARON,
"_Come to my dressing-room, without fail, as soon as you receive
this._
"SOPHIE CELAIRE."
Violet looked over his shoulder.
"The hussy!" she exclaimed, indignantly.
Her husband raised his eyebrows. With his forefinger he merely tapped
the two numerals.
"The Double Four!" she gasped
He looked around and nodded. The commissionaire was waiting. Peter took
up his silk hat from under the seat.
"If I am detained, dear," he whispered, "you'll make the best of it,
won't you? The car will be here, and Frederick will be looking out for
you."
"Of course," she answered, cheerfully. "I shall be quite all right."
She nodded brightly, and Peter took his departure. He passed through a
door on which was painted "Private," and through a maze of scenery and
stage hands and ballet ladies, by a devious route, to the region of the
dressing-rooms. His guide conducted him to the door of one of these and
knocked.
"_Entrez, monsieur_," a shrill feminine voice replied.
Peter entered, and closed the door behind him. The commissionaire
remained outside. Mademoiselle Celaire turned to greet her visitor.
"It is a few words I desire with you as quickly as possible, if you
please, Monsieur le Baron," she said, advancing towards him. "Listen."
She had brushed out her hair, and it hung from her head straight and a
little stiff, almost like the hair of an Indian woman. She had washed
her face free of all cosmetics, and her pallor was almost waxen. She
wore a dressing-gown of green silk. Her discarded black frock lay upon
the floor.
"I am entirely at your service, mademoiselle," Peter answered, bowing.
"Continue, if you please."
"You sup with me to-night--you are my guest."
He hesitated.
"I am very much honoured," he murmured. "It is an affair of urgency,
then? Mademoiselle will remember that I am not alone here."
She threw out her hands scornfully.
"They told me in Paris that you were a genius!" she exclaimed. "Cannot
you feel, then, when a thing is urgent? Do you not know it without being
told? You must meet me with a carriage at the stage door in forty
minutes. We sup in Hamilton Place with Andrea Korust and his brother."
"With whom?" Peter asked, surprised.
"With the Korust Brothers," she repeated. "I have just been talking to
Andrea. He calls himself a Hungarian. Bah! They are as much Hungarian as
I am!"
Peter leaned slightly against the table and looked thoughtfully at his
companion. He was trying to remember whether he had ever heard anything
of these young men.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "the prospect of partaking of any meal in your
company is in itself enchanting, but I do not know your friends, the
Korust Brothers. Apart from their wonderful music, I do not recollect
ever having heard of them before in my life. What excuse have I, then,
for accepting their hospitality? Pardon me, too, if I add that you have
not as yet spoken as to the urgency of this affair."
She turned from him impatiently, and, throwing herself back into the
chair from which she had risen at his entrance, she began to exchange
the thick woollen stockings which she had been wearing upon the stage
for others of fine silk.
"Oh, la, la!" she exclaimed. "You are very slow, Monsieur le Baron. It
is, perhaps, my stage name which has misled you. I am Marie Lapouse.
Does that convey anything to you?"
"A great deal," Peter admitted, quickly. "You stand very high upon the
list of my agents whom I may trust."
"Then stay here no longer," she begged, "for my maid waits outside, and
I need her services. Go back and make your excuses to your wife. In
forty minutes I shall expect you at the stage door."
"An affair of diplomacy, this, or brute force?" he inquired.
"Heaven knows what may happen!" she replied. "To tell you the truth, I
do not know myself. Be prepared for anything, but, for Heaven's sake, go
now! I can dress no further without my maid, and Andrea Korust may come
in at any moment. I do not wish him to find you here."
Peter made his way thoughtfully back to his seat. He explained the
situation to his wife so far as he could, and sent her home. Then he
waited until the car returned, smoking a cigarette and trying once more
to remember if he had ever heard anything of Andrea Korust or his
brother from Sogrange. Punctually at the time stated he was outside the
stage door of the music-hall, and a few minutes later Mademoiselle
Celaire appeared, a dazzling vision of furs and smiles and jewellery
imperfectly concealed. A small crowd pressed around to see the famous
Frenchwoman. Peter handed her gravely across the pavement into his
waiting motor-car. One or two of the loungers gave vent to a groan of
envy at the sight of the diamonds which blazed from her neck and bosom.
Peter smiled as he gave the address to his servant, and took his place
by the side of his companion.
"They see only the externals, this mob," he remarked. "They picture to
themselves, perhaps, a little supper for two. Alas!"
Mademoiselle Celaire laughed at him softly.
"You need not trouble to assume that most disconsolate of expressions,
my dear Baron," she assured him. "Your reputation as a man of gallantry
is beyond question, but remember that I know you also for the most
devoted and loyal of husbands. We waste no time in folly, you and I. It
is the business of the Double Four."
Peter was relieved, but his innate politeness forbade his showing it.
"Proceed," he said.
"The Brothers Korust," she went on, leaning towards him, "have a week's
engagement at the Alhambra. Their salary is six hundred pounds. They
play very beautifully, of course, but I think that it is as much as they
are worth."
Peter agreed with her fervently. He had no soul for music.
"They have taken the furnished house belonging to one of your dukes, in
Hamilton Place, for which we are bound; taken it, too, at a fabulous
rent," Mademoiselle Celaire continued. "They have installed there a chef
and a whole retinue of servants. They were here for seven nights; they
have issued invitations for seven supper parties."
"Hospitable young men they seem to be," Peter murmured. "I read in one
of the stage papers that Andrea is a count in his own country, and that
they perform in public only for the love of their music and for the sake
of the excitement and travel."
"A paragraph wholly inspired and utterly false," Mademoiselle Celaire
declared firmly, sitting a little forward in the car and laying her
hand, ablaze with jewels, upon his coat sleeve. "Listen. They call
themselves Hungarians. Bah! I know that they are in touch with a great
European Court, both of them, the Court of the country to which they
really belong. They have plans, plans and schemes connected with their
visit here, which I do not understand. I have done my best with Andrea
Korust, but he is not a man to be trusted. I know that there is
something more in these seven supper parties than idle hospitality. I
and others like me, artistes and musicians, are invited, to give the
assemblies a properly Bohemian tone, but there are to be other guests,
attracted there, no doubt, because the papers have spoken of these
gatherings."
"You have some idea of what it all means, in your mind?" Peter
suggested.
"It is too vague to put into words," she declared, shaking her head. "We
must both watch. Afterwards we will, if you like, compare notes."
The car drew up before the doors of a handsome house in Hamilton Place.
A footman received Peter, and relieved him of his hat and overcoat. A
trim maid performed the same office for Mademoiselle Celaire. They met a
moment or two later and were ushered into a large drawing-room in which
a dozen or two of men and women were already assembled, and from which
came a pleasant murmur of voices and laughter. The apartment was hung
with pale green satin; the furniture was mostly Chippendale, upholstered
in the same shade. A magnificent grand piano stood open in a smaller
room, just visible beyond. Only one thing seemed strange to the two
newly arrived guests. The room was entirely lit with shaded candles,
giving a certain mysterious but not unpleasant air of obscurity to the
whole suite of apartments. Through the gloom the jewels and eyes of the
women seemed to shine with a new brilliance. Slight eccentricities of
toilette--for a part of the gathering was distinctly Bohemian--were
softened and subdued. The whole effect was somewhat weird, but also
picturesque.
Andrea Korust advanced from a little group to meet his guests. Off the
stage he seemed at first sight frailer and slighter than ever. His dress
coat had been exchanged for a velvet dinner jacket, and his white tie
for a drooping black bow. He had a habit of blinking nearly all the
time, as though his large brown eyes, which he seldom wholly opened,
were weaker than they appeared to be. Nevertheless, when he came to
within a few paces of his newly arrived visitors, they shone with plenty
of expression. Without any change of countenance, however, he held out
his hand.
"Dear Andrea," Mademoiselle Celaire exclaimed, "you permit me that I
present to you my dear friend, well known in Paris--alas! many years
ago--Monsieur le Baron de Grost. Monsieur le Baron was kind enough to
pay his respects to me this evening, and I have induced him to become my
escort here."
"It was my good fortune," Peter remarked, smiling, "that I saw
Mademoiselle Celaire's name upon the bills this evening--my good
fortune, since it has procured for me the honour of an acquaintance with
a musician so distinguished."
"You are very kind, Monsieur le Baron," Korust replied.
"You stay here, I regret to hear, a very short time?"
"Alas!" Andrea Korust admitted, "it is so. For myself, I would that it
were longer. I find your London so attractive, the people so friendly.
They fall in with my whims so charmingly. I have a hatred, you know, of
solitude. I like to make acquaintances wherever I go, to have delightful
women and interesting men around, to forget that life is not always gay.
If I am too much alone I am miserable, and when I am miserable I am in a
very bad way indeed. I cannot then make music."
Peter smiled gravely and sympathetically.
"And your brother? Does he, too, share your gregarious instincts?"
Korust paused for a moment before replying. His eyes were quite wide
open now. If one could judge from his expression, one would certainly
have said that the Baron de Grost's attempts to ingratiate himself with
his host were distinctly unsuccessful.
"My brother has exactly opposite instincts," he said slowly. "He finds
no pleasure in society. At the sound of a woman's voice he hides."
"He is not here, then?" Peter asked, glancing around.
Andrea Korust shook his head.
"It is doubtful whether he joins us this evening at all," he declared.
"My sister, however, is wholly of my disposition. Monsieur le Baron will
permit me that I present her."
Peter bowed low before a very handsome young woman with flashing black
eyes, and a type of feature undoubtedly belonging to one of the
countries of Eastern Europe. She was picturesquely dressed in a gown of
flaming red silk, made as though in one piece, without trimming or
flounces, and she seemed inclined to bestow upon her new acquaintance
all the attention that he might desire. She took him at once into a
corner and seated herself by his side. It was impossible for Peter not
to associate the _empressement_ of her manner with the few words which
Andrea Korust had whispered into her ear at the moment of their
introduction.
"So you," she murmured, "are the wonderful Baron de Grost? I have heard
of you so often."
"Wonderful!" Peter repeated, with twinkling eyes. "I have never been
called that before. I feel that I have no claim whatever to distinction,
especially in a gathering like this."
She shrugged her shoulders and glanced carelessly across the room.
"They are well enough," she admitted; "but one wearies of genius on
every side of one. Genius is not the best thing in the world to live
with, you know. It has whims and fancies. For instance, look at these
rooms--the gloom, the obscurity--and I love so much the light."
Peter smiled.
"It is the privilege of genius," he remarked, "to have whims and to
indulge in them."
She sighed.
"To do Andrea justice," she said, "it is, perhaps, scarcely a whim that
he chooses to receive his guests in semi-darkness. He has weak eyes, and
he is much too vain to wear spectacles. Tell me, you know everyone
here?"
"No one," Peter declared. "Please enlighten me, if you think it
necessary. For myself," he added, dropping his voice a little, "I feel
that the happiness of my evening is assured without making any further
acquaintances."
"But you came as the guest of Mademoiselle Celaire," she reminded him
doubtfully, with a faint regretful sigh and a provocative gleam in her
eyes.
"I saw Mademoiselle Celaire to-night for the first time for years,"
Peter replied. "I called to see her in her dressing-room, and she
claimed me for an escort this evening. I am, alas! a very occasional
wanderer in the pleasant paths of Bohemia."
"If that is really true," she murmured, "I suppose I must tell you
something about the people, or you will feel that you have wasted your
opportunity."
"Mademoiselle," Peter whispered.
She held out her hand and laughed into his face.
"No!" she interrupted. "I shall do my duty. Opposite you is Mademoiselle
Drezani, the famous singer at Covent Garden. Do I need to tell you that,
I wonder? Rudolf Maesterling, the dramatist, stands behind her there in
the corner. He is talking to the wonderful Cléo, whom all the world
knows. Monsieur Guyer there, he is manager, I believe, of the Alhambra;
and talking to him is Marborg, the great pianist. The two ladies talking
to my brother are Esther Hammerton, whom, of course, you know by sight.
She is leading lady, is she not, at the Hilarity Theatre? The other one
is Miss Ransome. They tell me that she is your only really great English
actress."
Peter nodded appreciatively.
"It is all most interesting," he declared. "Now, tell me, please, who is
the military person with the stiff figure and sallow complexion standing
by the door? He seems quite alone."
The girl made a little grimace.
"I suppose I ought to be looking after him," she admitted, rising
reluctantly to her feet. "He is a soldier just back from India--a
General Noseworthy, with all sorts of letters after his name. If
Mademoiselle Celaire is generous, perhaps we may have a few minutes'
conversation later on," she added, with a parting smile.
"Say, rather, if Mademoiselle Korust is kind," de Grost replied, bowing.
"It depends upon that only."
He strolled across the room and rejoined Mademoiselle Celaire a few
moments later. They stood apart in a corner.
"I should like my supper," Peter declared.
"They wait for one more guest," Mademoiselle Celaire announced.
"One more guest! Do you know who it is?"
"No idea," she answered. "One would imagine that it was someone of
importance. Are you any wiser than when you came dear master?" she added
under her breath.
"Not a whit," he replied promptly.
She took out her fan and waved it slowly in front of her face.
"Yet you must discover what it all means to-night or not at all," she
whispered. "The dear Andrea has intimated to me most delicately that
another escort would be more acceptable if I should honour him again."
"That helps," he murmured. "See, our last guest arrives. Ah!"
A tall, spare-looking man was just being announced. They heard his name
as Andrea presented him to a companion:
"Colonel Mayson!"
Mademoiselle Celaire saw a gleam in her companion's eyes.
"It is coming--the idea?" she whispered.
"Very vaguely," he admitted.
"Who is this Colonel Mayson?"
"Our only military aeronaut," Peter replied.
She raised her eyebrows.
"Aeronaut!" she repeated doubtfully. "I see nothing in that. Both my own
country and Germany are years ahead of poor England in the air. Is it
not so?"
Peter smiled and held out his arm.
"See," he said, "supper has been announced. Afterwards Andrea Korust
will play to us, and I think that Colonel Mayson and his distinguished
brother officer from India will talk. We shall see."
They passed into a room whose existence had suddenly been revealed by
the drawing back of some beautiful brocaded curtains. Supper was a
delightful meal, charmingly served. Peter, putting everything else out
of his head for the moment, thoroughly enjoyed himself, and, remembering
his duty as a guest, contributed in no small degree towards the success
of the entertainment. He sat between Mademoiselle Celaire and his
hostess, both of whom demanded much from him in the way of attention.
But he still found time to tell stories which were listened to by
everyone, and exchanged sallies with the gayest. Only Andrea Korust,
from his place at the head of the table, glanced occasionally towards
his popular guest with a curious, half-hidden expression of distaste and
suspicion. The more the Baron de Grost shone, the more uneasy Andrea
became. The signal to rise from the meal was given almost abruptly.
Mademoiselle Korust hung on to Peter's arm. Her own wishes and her
brother's orders seemed to absolutely coincide. She led him towards a
retired corner of the music-room. On the way, however, Peter overheard
the introduction which he had expected.
"General Noseworthy is just returned from India, Colonel Mayson," Korust
said, in his usual quiet, tired tone. "You will, perhaps, find it
interesting to talk together a little. As for me, I play because all are
polite enough to wish it, but conversation disturbs me not in the
least."
Peter passed, smiling, on to the corner pointed out by his companion,
which was the darkest and most secluded in the room. He took her fan and
gloves, lit her cigarette, and leaned back by her side.
"How does your brother, a stranger to London, find time to make the
acquaintance of so many interesting people?" he asked.
"He brought many letters," she replied. "He has friends everywhere."
"I have an idea," Peter remarked, "that an acquaintance of my own, the
Count von Hern, spoke to me once about him."
She took her cigarette from her lips and turned her head slightly.
Peter's expression was one of amiable reminiscence. His cheeks were a
trifle flushed; his appearance was entirely reassuring. She laughed at
her brother's caution. She found her companion delightful.
"Yes, the Count von Hern is a friend of my brother's," she admitted
carelessly.
"And of yours?" he whispered, his arm slightly pressed against hers.
She laughed at him silently and their eyes met. Decidedly Peter, Baron
de Grost, found it hard to break away from his old weakness. Andrea
Korust, from his place near the piano, breathed a sigh of relief as he
watched. A moment or two later, however, Mademoiselle Korust was obliged
to leave her companion to receive a late but unimportant guest, and
almost simultaneously Colonel Mayson passed by on his way to the farther
end of the apartment. Andrea Korust was bending over the piano to give
some instructions to his accompanist. Peter leaned forward and his face
and tone were strangely altered.
"You will find General Noseworthy of the Indian Army a little
inquisitive, Colonel," he remarked.
The latter turned sharply round. There was meaning in those few words,
without doubt! There was meaning, too, in the still, cold face which
seemed to repel his question. He passed on thoughtfully. Mademoiselle
Korust, with a gesture of relief, came back and threw herself once more
upon the couch.
"We must talk in whispers," she said gaily. "Andrea always declares that
he does not mind conversation, but too much noise is, of course,
impossible. Besides, Mademoiselle Celaire will not spare you to me for
long."
"There is a whole language," he replied, "which was made for whisperers.
And as for Mademoiselle Celaire----"
"Well?"
He laughed softly.
"Mademoiselle Celaire is, I think, more your brother's friend than
mine," he murmured. "At least I will be generous. He has given me a
delightful evening. I resign my claims upon Mademoiselle Celaire."
"It would break your heart," she declared.
His voice sank even below a whisper. Decidedly Peter, Baron de Grost,
did not improve!...
He rose to leave precisely at the right time, neither too early nor too
late. He had spent altogether a most amusing evening. There were one or
two little comedies which had diverted him extremely. At the moment of
parting, the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Korust had been raised to
his very earnestly.
"You will come again very soon--to-morrow night?" she had whispered. "Is
it necessary that you bring Mademoiselle Celaire?"
"It is altogether unnecessary," Peter replied.
"Let me try and entertain you instead, then."
It was precisely at that instant that Andrea had sent for his sister.
Peter watched their brief conversation with much interest and intense
amusement. She was being told not to invite him there again and she was
rebelling! Without a doubt he had made a conquest! She returned to him
flushed, and with a dangerous glitter in her eyes.
"Monsieur le Baron," she said, leading him on one side, "I am ashamed
and angry."
"Your brother is annoyed because you have asked me here to-morrow
night?" he asked quickly.
"It is so," she confessed. "Indeed, I thank you that you have spared me
the task of putting my brother's discourtesy into words. Andrea takes
violent fancies like that sometimes. I am ashamed, but what can I do?"
"Nothing, mademoiselle," he admitted, with a sigh. "I obey, of course.
Did your brother mention the source of his aversion to me?"
"He is too absurd sometimes," she declared. "One must treat him like a
great baby."
"Nevertheless, there must be a reason," Peter persisted, gently.
"He has heard some foolish thing from the Count von Hern," she admitted,
reluctantly. "Do not let us think anything more about it. In a few days
it will have passed. And meanwhile----"
She paused. He leaned a little towards her. She was looking intently at
a ring upon her finger.
"If you would really like to see me," she whispered, "and if you are
sure that Mademoiselle Celaire would not object, could you not ask me to
tea to-morrow or the next day?"
"To-morrow," Peter insisted, with a becoming show of eagerness. "Shall
we say at the Carlton at five?"
She hesitated.
"Isn't that rather a public place?" she objected.
"Anywhere else you like."
She was silent for a moment. She seemed to be waiting for some
suggestion from him. None came.
"The Carlton at five," she murmured. "I am angry with Andrea. I feel,
even, that I could break his wonderful violin in two!"
Peter sighed once more.
"I should like to twist von Hern's neck!" he declared. "Lucky for him
that he's in St. Petersburg! Let us forget this unpleasant matter,
mademoiselle. The evening has been too delightful for such memories."
Mademoiselle Celaire turned to her escort as soon as they were alone in
the car.
"As an escort, let me tell you, my dear Baron," she exclaimed, with some
pique, "that you are a miserable failure! For the rest----"
"For the rest, I will admit that I am puzzled," Peter said. "I need to
think. I have the glimmerings of an idea--no more."
"You will act? It is an affair for us--for the Double Four?"
"Without a doubt--an affair and a serious one," Peter assured her. "I
shall act. Exactly how I cannot say until after to-morrow."
"To-morrow?" she repeated.
"Mademoiselle Korust takes tea with me," he explained.
* * * * *
In a quiet sort of way, the series of supper parties given by Andrea
Korust became the talk of London. The most famous dancer in the world
broke through her unvarying rule, and night after night thrilled the
distinguished little gathering. An opera singer, the "star" of the
season, sang; a great genius recited; and Andrea himself gave always of
his best. Apart from this wonderful outpouring of talent, Andrea Korust
himself seemed to possess the peculiar art of bringing into touch with
one another people naturally interested in the same subjects. On the
night after the visit of Peter, Baron de Grost, His Grace the Duke of
Rosshire was present, the man in whose hands lay the destinies of the
British Navy; and, curiously enough, on the same night, a great French
writer on naval subjects was present, whom the Duke had never met, and
with whom he was delighted to talk for some time apart. On another
occasion, the Military Secretary to the French Embassy was able to have
a long and instructive chat with a distinguished English general on the
subject of the recent manœuvres, and the latter received, in the
strictest confidence, some very interesting information concerning the
new type of French guns. On the following evening the greatest of our
Colonial statesmen, a red-hot Imperialist, was able to chat about the
resources of the Empire with an English politician of similar views,
whom he chanced never to have previously met. Altogether these parties
seemed to be the means of bringing together a series of most interesting
people, interesting not only in themselves, but in their relations to
one another. It was noticeable, however, that from this side of his
little gatherings Andrea Korust remained wholly apart. He admitted that
music and cheerful companionship were the only two things in life he
really cared for. Politics or matters of world import seemed to leave
him unmoved. If a serious subject of conversation were started at
supper-time he was frankly bored, and took no pains to hide the fact. It
is certain that whatever interesting topics were alluded to in his
presence, he remained entirely outside any understanding of them.
Mademoiselle Celaire, who was present most evenings, although with other
escorts, was puzzled. She could see nothing whatever to account for the
warning which she had received, and had at once passed on, as was her
duty, to the Baron de Grost. She failed, also, to understand the faint
but perceptible enlightenment to which Peter himself had admittedly
attained after that first evening. Take that important conversation, for
instance, between the French military _attaché_ and the British general.
Without a doubt it was of interest, and especially so to the country
which she was sure claimed his allegiance, but it was equally without
doubt that Andrea Korust neither overheard a word of that conversation
nor betrayed the slightest curiosity concerning it. Mademoiselle Celaire
was a clever woman, and she had never felt so hopelessly at fault.
Illumination was to come, however--illumination, dramatic and complete.
The seventh and last of these famous supper parties was in full swing.
Notwithstanding the shaded candles, which left the faces of the guests a
little indistinct, the scene was a brilliant one. Mademoiselle Celaire
was wearing her famous diamonds, which shone through the gloom like
pin-pricks of fire; Garda Desmaines, the wonderful Garda, sat next to
her host, her bosom and hair on fire with jewels, yet with the most
wonderful light of all glowing in her eyes; a famous actor, who had
thrown his proverbial reticence to the winds, kept his immediate
neighbours in a state of semi-hysterical mirth; the clink of
wine-glasses, the laughter of beautiful women, the murmur of cultivated
voices, rose and fell through the faint, mysterious gloom. It was a
picturesque, a wonderful scene enough. Pale as a marble statue, with the
covert smile of the gracious host, Andrea Korust sat at the head of the
table, well pleased with his company, as indeed he had the right to be.
By his side was a great American statesman, who was travelling round the
world, and yet had refused all other invitations of this sort. He had
come for the pleasure of meeting the famous Dutch writer and politician,
Mr. van Jool. The two were already talking intimately. It was at this
point that tragedy, or something like it, intervened. A man's impatient
voice was heard in the hall outside, a man's voice which grew louder and
louder, more impatient, finally more passionate. People raised their
heads to listen. The American statesman, who was, perhaps, the only one
to realise exactly what was coming, slipped his hand into his pocket and
gripped something cold and hard. Then the door was flung open. An
apologetic and much disturbed butler made the announcement which had
evidently been demanded of him.
"Mr. von Tassen!"
A silence followed--breathless--the silence before the bursting of the
storm. Mr. von Tassen was the name of the American statesman, and the
man who rose slowly from his place by his host's side was the exact
double of the man who stood now upon the threshold, gazing in upon the
room. The expression of the two alone was different. The new-comer was
furiously angry, and looked it. The sham Mr. von Tassen was very much at
his ease. It was he who broke the silence, and his voice was curiously
free from all trace of emotion. He was looking his double over with an
air of professional interest.
"On the whole," he said calmly, "very good. A little stouter, I
perceive, and the eyebrows a trifle too regular. Of course, when you
make faces at me like that, it is hard to judge of the expression. I can
only say that I did the best I could."
"Who the devil are you, masquerading in my name?" the new-comer
demanded, with emphasis. "This man is an impostor!" he added, turning to
Andrea Korust. "What is he doing at your table?"
Andrea leaned forward, and his face was an evil thing to look upon.
"Who are you?" he hissed out.
The sham Mr. von Tassen turned away for a moment and stooped down. The
trick has been done often enough upon the stage, often in less time, but
seldom with more effect. The wonderful wig disappeared, the spectacles,
the lines in the face, the make-up of diabolical cleverness. With his
back to the wall and his fingers playing with something in his pocket,
Peter, Baron de Grost smiled upon his host.
"Since you insist upon knowing--the Baron de Grost, at your service!" he
announced.
Andrea Korust was, for the moment, speechless. One of the women
shrieked. The real Mr. von Tassen looked around him helplessly.
"Will someone be good enough to enlighten me as to the meaning of this?"
he begged. "Is it a roast? If so, I only want to catch on. Let me get to
the joke, if there is one. If not, I should like a few words of
explanation from you, sir," he added, addressing Peter.
"Presently," the latter replied. "In the meantime, let me persuade you
that I am not the only impostor here."
He seized a glass of water and dashed it in the face of Mr. van Jool.
There was a moment's scuffle, and no more of Mr. van Jool. What emerged
was a good deal like the shy Maurice Korust, who accompanied his brother
at the music-hall, but whose distaste for these gatherings had been
Andrea's continual lament. The Baron de Grost stepped back once more
against the wall. His host was certainly looking dangerous. Mademoiselle
Celaire was leaning forward, staring through the gloom with distended
eyes. Around the table every head was craned towards the centre of the
disturbance. It was Peter again who spoke.
"Let me suggest, Andrea Korust," he said, "that you send your
guests--those who are not immediately interested in this affair--into
the next room. I will offer Mr. von Tassen then the explanation to which
he is entitled."
Andrea Korust staggered to his feet. The man's nerve had failed. He was
shaking all over. He pointed to the music-room.
"If you would be so good, ladies and gentlemen!" he begged. "We will
follow you immediately."
They went, with obvious reluctance. All their eyes seemed focused upon
Peter. He bore their scrutiny with calm cheerfulness. For a moment he
had feared Korust, but that moment had passed. A servant, obeying his
master's gesture, pulled back the curtains after the departing crowd.
The four men were alone.
"Mr. von Tassen," Peter said easily, "you are a man who loves
adventures. To-night you experience a new sort of one. Over in your
great country such methods as these are laughed at as the cheap device
of sensation-mongers. Nevertheless, they exist. To-night is a proof that
they exist."
"Get on to facts, sir!" the American admonished. "Before you leave this
room, you've got to explain to me what you mean by passing yourself off
as Thomas von Tassen."
Peter bowed.
"With much pleasure, Mr. von Tassen," he declared. "For your
information, I might tell you that you are not the only person in whose
guise I have figured. In fact, I have had quite a busy week. I have
been--let me see--I have been Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel on the
night when our shy friend, Maurice Korust, was playing the part of
General Henderson. I have also been His Grace the Duke of Rosshire when
my friend Maurice here was introduced to me as François Defayal, known
by name to me as one of the greatest writers on naval matters. A little
awkward about the figure I found His Grace, but otherwise I think that I
should have passed muster wherever he was known. I have also passed as
Sir William Laureston, on the evening when my rival artiste here sang
the praises of Imperial England."
Andrea Korust leaned forward with venomous eyes.
"You mean that it was you who was here last night in Sir William
Laureston's place?" he almost shrieked.
"Most certainly," Peter admitted, "but you must remember that, after
all, my performances have been no more difficult than those of your shy
but accomplished brother. Whenever I took to myself a strange
personality I found him there, equally good as to detail, and with his
subject always at his finger-tips. We settled that little matter of the
canal, didn't we?" Peter remarked cheerfully, laying his hand upon the
shoulder of the young man.
They stared at him, these two white-faced brothers, like tiger-cats
about to spring. Mr. von Tassen was getting impatient.
"Look here," he protested, "you may be clearing matters up so far as
regards Mr. Andrea Korust and his brother, but I'm as much in the fog as
ever. Where do I come in?"
"Your pardon, sir!" Peter replied. "I am getting nearer things now.
These two young men--we will not call them hard names--are suffering
from an excess of patriotic zeal. They didn't come and sit down on a
camp-stool and sketch obsolete forts, as those others of their
countrymen do when they want to pose as the bland and really exceedingly
ignorant foreigners. They went about the matter with some skill. It
occurred to them that it might be interesting to their country to know
what Sir William Laureston thought about the strength of the Imperial
Navy, and to what extent his country were willing to go in maintaining
their allegiance to Great Britain. Then there was the Duke of Rosshire.
They thought they'd like to know his views as to the development of the
Navy during the next ten years. There was that little matter, too, of
the French guns. It would certainly be interesting to them to know what
Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel had to say about them. These people
were all invited to sit at the hospitable board of our host here. I,
however, had an inkling on the first night of what was going on, and I
was easily able to persuade those in authority to let me play their
several parts. You, sir," Peter added, turning to Mr. von Tassen, "you,
sir, floored me. You were not an Englishman, and there was no appeal
which I could make. I simply had to risk you. I counted upon your not
turning up. Unfortunately, you did. Fortunately, you are the last guest.
This is the seventh supper."
Mr. von Tassen glanced around at the three men and made up his mind.
"What do you call yourself?" he asked Peter.
"The Baron de Grost," Peter replied.
"Then, my friend the Baron de Grost," von Tassen said, "I think that you
and I had better get out of this. So I was to talk about Germany with
Mr. van Jool, eh?"
"I have already explained your views," Peter declared, with twinkling
eyes. "Mr. van Jool was delighted."
Mr. von Tassen shook with laughter.
"Say," he exclaimed, "this is a great story! If you're ready, Baron de
Grost, lead the way to where we can get a whisky and soda and a chat."
Mademoiselle Celaire came gliding out to them.
"I am not going to be left here," she whispered, taking Peter's arm.
Peter looked back from the door.
"At any rate, Mr. Andrea Korust," he said, "your first supper was a
success. Colonel Mayson was genuine. Our real English military aeronaut
was here, and he has disclosed to you, Maurice Korust, all that he ever
knew. Henceforth I presume your great country will dispute with us for
the mastery of the air."
"Queer country, this," Mr. von Tassen remarked, pausing on the step to
light a cigar. "Seems kind of humdrum after New York, but there's no use
talking--things do happen over here anyway!"