Topham and Rutile met at dinner that night, but neither touched on the
subject that lay nearest the navy officer’s heart. Topham was slow
to tell his feelings at any time, and in this particular instance he
wanted to think a little more before he made a confidant of any one.
Rutile, on the other hand, did not care to attempt to force the other’s
confidence. So they talked the meal through on indifferent topics.
Dinner over, Rutile excused himself. “I’m awfully sorry, old man,” he
said. “But I find I can’t be with you until late tonight. I’ve got
about three hours of work that must be done, even if the heavens fall.
I hate to leave you on your only night here, but--”
“Nonsense. That’s all right! I know what orders are. I’ll make out.
I--well, I’ve got to think something out, myself, and I’ll be glad of
the chance. Just tell me where I can go and moon about--”
“Why not go out to the Thiergarten? The band will be playing and
everybody will be there, but you can be as lonely as you please, if you
please. Stay there a few hours and then show up at the embassy about
eleven or twelve o’clock and we’ll have a talk or go out and paint the
town, whichever you like. Berlin isn’t Paris, but it doesn’t go to bed
by curfew law, either.”
“Thank you! I’ll do as you say. But I don’t care to incarnadine
anything. How do I get to this Thiergarten place?”
Rutile told him and an hour later Topham was walking along the
spacious roadways of the park, thinking of nearly everything but his
surroundings.
He was twenty-five, clean-shaven, Gibsonesque, with the erect carriage
that bespeaks military training. As he moved slowly through the crowd,
many halted for a second and glanced at him before turning to the next
corner in the kaleidoscopic throng. Two looks are the best compliment
a stranger can pay; a single glance asserts insignificance, and three
glances argue peculiarity. Walter Topham was neither insignificant nor
peculiar.
But though many looked at Topham, he looked at nobody. The fair face
of the Countess Elsa was ever before his mind’s eye, filling it to
the exclusion of all else. How could he live for a whole year without
seeing her? How could he accept her orders as final? Yet what could he
do? What could he do? He had been glad to get away from Rutile and that
he might once more ask himself the question.
At the edge of the garden he paused and stared unseeingly down the long
avenue stretched before him, hesitating whether or not to turn back.
He cared little for his surroundings. Wherever he was, he saw only
the brilliant tints of this Brazilian countess who wanted to become a
German duchess.
Abruptly his mood changed; he wanted human companionship; and he faced
back into the garden, vaguely wondering whether in its merry-making
throngs he could find the escape from his own thoughts he craved.
The scene was a charming one. Beneath the radiant gaslights moved a
vivid kaleidoscope of uniforms and gowns. Faces, now sternly handsome,
now softly beautiful, flashed out and then disappeared. The animal
houses, built after the fashion of the countries whence their occupants
came, showed here and there through the trees--now an elephant house
from India and next a pagoda filled with bright-colored Japanese
birds. To Topham’s ears as the music hushed, came the sound of gay
laughter and happy song, mingled with the tinkling of glasses from the
little tables beneath the trees. The air was heavy with the scent of
flowers or perhaps with perfume shaken from the gowns of the women. The
Berliners were making merry in the hearty whole-souled German way that
forgets the toils of the day the moment they are over and recalls them
only when the time comes to resume them.
Insensibly the spirit of the place calmed the American. “We’ve nothing
like this at home,” he mused, “More’s the pity. We’re too feverish, too
anxious to finish, so as to be able to start again. Will we ever really
finish, I wonder? Is it our climate or is it merely a passing phase of
our character? We seem to drop out of it readily enough when we come
over here. I don’t suppose there is a soul in all this crowd that is
thinking of anything except the pleasure of the moment.”
He rested his hand on the back of a vacant chair and stared at the
crowd. Hundreds of people were passing him every minute, but he knew
none of them. He could not hope to see the countess, of course, and he
cared little for any one else.
The fates, however, were propitious. Scarcely had he begun to watch,
when he heard his name called. He looked up and smiled. It was Herrman
Ferreira--he who had shared his compartment on the train, he whom he
had come to identify with the Count del Ouro Preto. That is to say,
it was the brother of his charmer--if not the rose it was the nearest
thorn.
“Ah Herr Topham! Well found, my friend. You have quite recovered from
the affair on the train?”
“Oh! Quite! And you?”
“But yes! I hope you have suffered no inconvenience from the loss of
your papers?” The Brazilian’s tones were light, but Topham thought he
read a note of anxiety in them.
“Very little,” he replied. “They were only of sentimental value, Count!”
“Count!” The other smiled. “Ah! Ha! You know. My good friend Rutile has
told you? Yes! I am count. But I seldom use the title. I fly higher.
Perhaps you have heard.”
Topham nodded, and the Brazilian rattled on. “Boni!” he exclaimed. “I
have good news. Come and rejoice with me. As you Americans say, come
and smile with me.” He caught Walter by the arm and drew him down the
walk to the tables beneath the trees.
Topham went willingly enough. Despite the warning of the Gazette
correspondent, he rather liked Ouro Preto. Besides, he was the brother
of the Countess Elsa.
Ouro Preto picked out a table and beckoned to a waiter. “What will
you have, my friend,” he demanded, as he dropped into his chair. “The
gin-rickey or the horse’s-neck or the mint-julep of America; the wine
of France; or the beer of Germany?”
“Anything, so long as it’s beer,” returned Topham, lightly. “But,
Count, what’s your good news?”
“The best ever. You know what it is I want in Berlin? Yes? Well, the
Emperor will see me tomorrow at ten.”
Walter caught up the stein which the swift-footed waiter had placed
before him. “Congratulations!” he cried, and gulped the beer.
Ouro Preto nodded. His eyes were bright with excitement, and his dark
cheeks burned with color. “That argues much, eh? friend Topham?” he
questioned. “Wilhelm does not see a man in private audience unless he
has something to say to him. If he meant to refuse, he could do so by
proxy. That he consents to see me means--means--well, I scarcely dare
guess what it may mean.”
Walter played with his stein. “I’m not familiar with the Emperor’s
ways,” he observed, “But to be received in private audience seems a
mighty good augury.”
Ouro Preto sipped his beer slowly. “It’s great,” he cried. “It must
mean something. And yet you can never tell. Obstacles arise out of
nothing. There are so many interlocking interests over here. One
touches a Frenchman and a Russian suddenly springs up in his way. One
whispers a secret to an Italian, and the next day an Englishman greets
him with it. You Americans are happy to stand aside from all this. As
the great Washington said, you have no entangling alliances. You need
no diplomacy. But here--here every man must be a diplomat and must
intrigue. It is of a necessity.”
The Brazilian raised his stick and beckoned again to the waiter. “Zwei
bier,” he ordered. While he waited, he gazed round at the near-by
tables, scanning their occupants one by one, as if to single out any
who might be watching.
Those at the tables were sufficiently diverse. At one table a
couple of Englishmen were drinking gin; at another the members of
a party, conspicuously American, were laughing guiltily as they
tasted unaccustomed wine; beyond two or three Italians were making
a tremendous noise over a bottle of vin ordinaire; close at hand an
unescorted lady, apparently French, was sipping a glass of champagne.
The count seemed satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, for he
turned to Topham with a smile. “Only the usual set,” he observed, “At
least, so far as I can see. Probably I alarm myself needlessly. So far
as I know, it is to no one’s interest to oppose me. You can think of no
one, eh! my friend?”
“I?” Topham stared at the man in surprise. “Of course not. I didn’t
know till today what you were after; and certainly I have never heard
anyone suggest any opposition. Why should they?”
The Brazilian laughed. “Why should they, indeed?” he answered, lightly.
He broke off, and Topham saw that he was watching some one.
The swish of a skirt just behind his chair and a faint perfume that
stole upon his senses warned the American not to look around too
suddenly. When he did manage to turn with sufficient casualness, he saw
two ladies and a gentleman taking their seats at a vacant table a few
feet away. The man’s face was toward him and he recognized him at once.
The girls’ backs were turned, but something familiar in the pose of one
of them set his heart to thumping.
Ouro Preto leaned forward, excitedly. “Do you know who they are?” he
demanded. “The ladies, I mean. I know the ambassador, of course, though
only by sight.”
Topham nodded. “I know one of them,” he declared. “One is Lord
Maxwell’s daughter. The other--”
But the Brazilian was not listening. “Did you see her face?” he
questioned. “Hers! The one to the right. She’s a wonderful creature!
Dios! Topham! I must meet her!”
Topham was still staring at the back of the girl who seemed familiar.
Surely it could not be--and yet--
She wore a wide basket hat, from beneath which little yellow tendrils
tumbled, shining red gold against her slender white neck. Topham was
sure he had seen those curls against that neck before. The delicate
poise of her head, too, was familiar. If she would only turn her head a
trifle--She did it, and Topham rose quickly to his feet. “Lillian!” he
gasped.
Ouro Preto’s voice reached his ear. “Do you know her?” he asked. “Can
you present me?”
Topham nodded. “Certainly! If she will give me permission,” he
answered. “Please excuse me while I recall myself to her.”