"You do not know La Carina?" exclaimed Mitzi. "But then--then--then I
must begin at the beginning."
(Holy Sergeant Young, etc., etc., as before.)
"La Carina was a celebrated dancer, exceedingly beautiful and clever,
and famous for her charming, tiny feet as well as for...."
She hesitated.
"Well?" asked I, trying by my question to help her.
Miss Mitzi blushed and finished her sentence in a whisper:
"... As for her lover. It seems hardly believable that you never should
have heard of her adventures with the Archduke Alphons Hector."
Now, distinguished reader, you--being endowed with a better brain than
I--will, no doubt, remember that name Alphons Hector. And you will say:
Alphons Hector, that is how the _Herr Graf_ on the evening of _Macbeth_
was called by Bischoff, the actor.
Readers are supposed to have good memories. I apparently have a bad
one. When I heard Miss Mitzi pronouncing these two names "Alphons
Hector" they did not bring any recollection to my brain.
"How my aunt Kathi--that was La Carina's real name--eloped with the
Archduke, how he wanted to marry her, how the Emperor frustrated
that plan, is a story which has been told so often that I am really
surprised that you should not know it."
"Perhaps I was not allowed...."
"But was it not in the English papers?"
"English papers never meddle with things matrimonial, except when they
reach the Divorce Court."
Miss Mitzi laughed.
"Well," she said, "this affair did not reach the Divorce Court, but
it was scandalous enough. Still, my father would never have guessed
our connexion with royalty, had not my mother when I was nine decided
to send me to a certain high-class school, which could not be entered
without protection. So mother wrote to aunt Kathi, whose daughter was
being educated at that particular school."
I must have made a surprised face at the mention of the dancer's
daughter, for Miss Mitzi added:
"Yes! the Archduke and aunt Kathi had two children, a boy and a girl,
both older than I, the boy three years and the girl ten months. They
were called _Franz von Heidenbrunn_ and _Augusta von Heidenbrunn_.
Their mother was _Frau von Heidenbrunn_, and their father was supposed
to be a _Graf von Heidenbrunn_.
"I went to that school and made friends with Augusta. We soon became
inseparable; nor did my father then object to our frequenting each
other. By and by both families became acquainted, and father felt
greatly pleased that an Archduke, although only under the incognito
mask of a Count, should climb up into his modest apartment of the
Karlsgasse. They--the Archduke and my father--became even friendly
enough to collaborate in a ballet--it was called _Fata Morgana_--and I
suspect that my aunt Kathi had a finger in the pie. However, what was
bound to happen occurred when that ballet was performed. Up to that
time my father had remained unaware of the relationship that existed
between the two sisters. But on that particular evening somebody
congratulated my father on having so influential a brother-in-law ...
and, of course, the fat was in the fire.
"It is impossible to imagine my father's anger. That he should have
been cheated, he, by his wife, in his own home! He forbade his door to
my poor aunt and to her children, and if he did not act in the same
way with the Archduke it was only because he had not the courage to
do so. Yet the result was the same: the Archduke, too, ceased to visit
us. And all our nice intercourse was over, save for Augusta and me, who
remained friendly and became probably even friendlier than we had been
before.
"Three years ago aunt Kathi died, and her children left Vienna for
Salzburg...."
"Ah!" said I.
I leave to you to interpret this "Ah!" as it pleases you. Was it
expressing my pleasure of finding my way through her story, or my
sorrow at the discovery of who and what the pretty officer in Salzburg
was?
"A little over a year ago," went on Miss Mitzi, "my mother followed her
sister. On her death-bed she asked father to reconcile himself with
the Archduke and his children. But he did not yield to her prayer,
although I believe that he loved her dearly. The Archduke on his side
made a step towards peace and proposed to father another collaboration.
They are writing another ballet together, which they call _Griseldis_.
Still, my father persists in not allowing me to see Augusta. He says
that as a daughter of an Archduke she is too high-born for me, and as
a daughter of La Carina too low."
"I see," I exclaimed, "I see what you were doing in Salzburg."
She looked at me wistfully, as if to say that a mere man would always
be short-sighted.
"Not only was I separated from my dearest friend, but I was not allowed
to frequent anybody belonging to the theatrical world. And if I am
taking singing lessons it is on the understanding that I will never
become a professional singer."
"How cruel!"
"Yes, cruel," repeated the dear girl, and the brims of her eyelids
became very pink as though she were going to have a cry. If I had dared
I would have taken her into my arms and would have told her ... I knew
not what. One has to be rather experienced to know what to tell to a
sweet creature who opens her heart, her sorrowful heart to you.
"Now," she went on, "among the people who think that I have some talent
and could make a successful operatic singer, there is a theatrical
agent, Mr. Maurus Giulay."
"I know him," I cried, "a fat Hungarian with diamonds on his fingers
and...."
"Oh, yes!" said Miss Mitzi eagerly, "is he not a charming man? So full
of wit, and so kind, and such a business man!"
The reader will do well to compare this appreciation of Mr. Giulay by
Miss Doblana with my own, as reported in chapter three, and to judge
whether I was right in having taken an immediate dislike to him.
"Mr. Giulay," continued Miss Mitzi, and I am sure that her eyes shone
while she was speaking, "Mr. Giulay says I have a great talent not only
as a singer but also as an actress."
And she added in a low voice, as though she were telling me a secret:
"He has seen me act."
She remained for one moment as in a dream, and then went on:
"Of course I am not supposed to know him at all. Now, on that Sunday
morning when you saw me first, father was playing a concerto at Prague.
The rehearsals were on the evenings of the Friday and Saturday before.
So on the Friday morning he left for Prague. I accompanied him to the
railway station to show him off. He did not know that he was leaving
me alone in charge of the house; for Fanny had begged of me to let her
go and see her dying mother. Each time she wants to see her young man
her mother becomes gravely ill; and although I am well aware that her
mother died a good many years ago I let Fanny depart, because otherwise
she becomes intolerable. I was therefore quite alone, and, you may
believe me, I did not enjoy it. A little singing, a little cooking, a
little reading, and a good lot of being wearied, that was how nearly
the whole day passed. But late in the afternoon something happened. A
wire came. A wire for me. It came from Salzburg and ran thus:
'Splendid opportunity for you, meet me to-morrow evening six at
Salzburg station. Giulay.'
"I had no money. It is one of father's peculiarities to leave me with
as little money as possible. What do you think I did? I went out and
pawned my ring. A nice ring my mother had given me. I am ashamed to
tell you how little they gave me for it. It was not even enough for a
return ticket; but never mind, Augusta would lend me my return fare. I
was not going to Salzburg without seeing her."
"I passed the night in an undescribable state of excitement, and on
the Saturday morning I went to the Western Station, took my ticket and
departed. Now, imagine my feelings when on my arrival at Salzburg there
was no Giulay!"
She made a pause. Probably she expected me to express my surprise; but
I did not. I kept silent. If I had said anything it would have been to
tell her that I was not astonished. I knew that I did not like him. But
how to signify such an opinion to a girl who had just told me that she
found him charming?
"I waited an hour, I waited two hours, and no Giulay came. So I went
to my friends, where I passed the night, and the next day I returned
home half angry and puzzled, and half amused at my childish eagerness.
Surely Giulay would give me an explanation. Yet this explanation I
never received for the same reason that prevented me from seeing you: I
am locked up."
"But why?" I asked.
"That, my friend," (how sweet of her to call me friend!) "I don't
know, and I want you to find out."
"But your father must have given you a reason."
"He has not."
"He is probably angry for your having gone to Salzburg."
"He does not know it."
"How is that?"
"When I came home, just in time, Fanny had arrived and was, of course,
in great anxiety about me. I told her all, and I am sure that she has
not betrayed me. A quarter of an hour later my father arrived. He had
had a splendid success and seemed very happy. He kissed me and was
absolutely as usual. We had some supper and I went to bed. Tired as I
was I fell asleep at once. But after an hour or so father came into my
room, pale and with distorted features.
"Mitzi," he called with a voice which I scarcely recognized. "Who
called upon you during my absence?"
"I told him that nobody did. But he made a fearful scene, insisting
that he knew all, while he evidently knew nothing, and that I would be
confined to my room until I had told him the truth. And since that day
I am here, and every morning he comes and asks me:
"'Will you confess?'
"And I really do not know what has happened, nor what he wants from me."
* * * * *
"P. C.," calls Guncotton. (I wonder whether that has any meaning in
Chemistry.) "Here's a letter from Sergeant Young for you."
This is what Charlie writes:
"My nose is broken, but I don't care. Your humble servant has the
honour of being mentioned in dispatches. I once had a brother called
Friedrich Wilhelm. He was mentioned in dispatches during the Boer War
and soon afterwards obtained his commission.
"Yours,
"CHARLIE."
There was never such faith as brave Sergeant Young's.