"No," I answered, "I think I am alone," whereupon the lady at once
entered the carriage. The officer remained outside and closed the
door while she, lowering the window, leaned outside to continue her
conversation. I guessed that my journey would be _en tête à tête_, and,
of course, wondered whether she was young and pretty. Her companion
was himself such an accomplished beauty, that I had in fact omitted to
look at her. Anyhow, what I saw at present, although it was the wrong
side only, the reverse of the medal, to be polite, was not at all to be
despised. But when the toss was made, would the head be worthy of the
tail?
At last a faint whistle was heard.
"Remember to write!" exclaimed the officer outside, while the train
stirred, moved groaning forward, and slowly began rolling out of the
station. For a while the lady remained leaning out of the window and
waving her handkerchief. Then, at length, she sat back in her seat, the
seat which the little Frenchman had occupied, and from which his temper
(or was it my luck?) had removed him.
She was uncommonly pretty, although she at once assumed an elaborate
air of indifference. She even pouted a little, but it only helped to
show her fleshy, red lips to a better advantage. And her features were
much too soft as to be spoiled by that alleged air of indifference.
They were not very regular, these features, but they formed a handsome
whole. And now, as a little smile crept over them, a dimple, a tiny,
sweet dimple, appeared near the left corner of her mouth.
Why had she smiled? To show that dimple and her lovely teeth? Or had
she been thinking of her companion? That smile--was it coquetry, or
some pleasing remembrance? Or had mockery made her smile?
What was she to that officer? A sister? A wife? A mistress?
How old was she? I wished she would take off that bonnet. Bonnets
deceive. This is the reason why they play such an important part in
woman's life.
I did not know much about millinery, but this was rather a showy
bonnet. So was the rest of the toilet. She looked like an officer's
wife. Besides, had she been his sister, he would scarcely have played
the cock and hen game. But then, if she was his wife, he probably would
not have played it either! His had been a suitor's behaviour.
I had reached this point of my meditations when she took off her
gloves, and I saw that she had no rings on her fingers. And then, as
if to satisfy my wishes, she removed the bonnet. She was fair, with a
copper sheen on her hair, and probably not more than twenty.
My penetration, for I thought myself pretty shrewd and sharp-sighted,
constructed now rapidly the following theory: _She_ was a young
gentlewoman, her tall figure being a proof of her high breed. She was
well off, the showy dress and her travelling first-class confirmed it.
She was nicely brought up, as became a young and noble lady, for she
wore no jewellery. (In my idea wearing jewellery is inconsistent with
a young lady's good education.) As for the officer, he was neither a
brother, nor a husband, nor a lover, but some friend or relation, who
had just accompanied her to the railway station in order to help her
with her luggage, and so on.
Now, all this proves only, that I was then an inexperienced youth
of 21, easy of belief, and superficial. If I tell you that I was a
musician (I do not say: I _am_; I say: I _was_) you will understand my
character altogether.
* * * * *
I had to interrupt my history. Our Father which is in the War Office
had sent us our daily jam. I wonder whether my pretty Austrian officer,
whom I first saw eight years ago at the Salzburg railway station, is
still alive, and whether he has jam, too? And whether he thinks of me
as I do of him, and whether he remembers that Sunday afternoon when he
put her, my Austrian love, in my railway carriage?
She was sitting there, looking out of the window. It was now a quarter
of an hour since we had left Salzburg, and the train had got on its
even, rapid pace that it would keep up for the afternoon.
I did not dare to speak to my fair Comtesse. This was the rank which
my imagination had given her. If, when travelling, you do not start a
conversation at once, you generally never will. So I fretted. I had
nothing to read, not even a paper. I did not want to sleep, besides, I
never could sleep on a train. As for her, she hardly moved.
Thus another quarter of an hour had passed, when the conductor, opening
the door of the corridor, asked for our tickets. I could not help
feeling surprised when I saw the man, for he looked somewhat like a
twin brother of the little Frenchman. He was of the same size, had
the same black hair, the same black moustache and pointed tuft of
beard on his chin. It was so striking that my English brain, brought
up chiefly on detective stories, smelt at once a mystery. I could not
refrain from stepping out with him on to the corridor where, in order
to make certain whether the little Frenchman and the conductor were but
one person, I asked him what the next stop was. He answered and began
chatting. It was quite another voice and, while my Frenchman spoke
German only with great difficulty, this conductor gave me an example
of the volubility with which the Viennese people speak their broad,
good-humoured dialect. The mystery was only chance.
"A nice girl," said the man smiling and blinking with his eyes half
closed in the direction of the Comtesse.
"Where is she travelling to?" I asked.
"Vienna," he answered. And then, raising his eyes with a matchmaking
expression under his black eyebrows, "I travel the whole way with you,"
said he. "If you will, I'll try and leave you alone with her."
I understood. My backsheesh was soon handed over, whereupon--I
suppose--that high-priest of the railway church mentally pronounced the
decisive words which were to unite us for the duration of our journey.
I must say, however, that this matrimonial benediction took no
immediate effect. For when I returned to my seat, I still had no
courage to talk to my fair _vis-à-vis_.
She had not moved and was looking with desperate equanimity at the
landscape that was galloping before her eyes.