We three--Leonard Cotton, Rose Mindel and I, Maurice Lister, who
comprised the much-advertised little troupe of English artistes recently
arrived at Brussels--sipped the very excellent black coffee provided for
our delectation by Monsieur Huber, the proprietor of the Quatres
Etoiles, gazed around with interest at the motley crowd by which we were
surrounded, applauded the performance of a little French soubrette upon
the stage with all the abandon required by fellow artistes, and
exchanged mutual smiles of well-being and content. To tell the truth,
the Café des Quatres Etoiles, its clientele, and the character of the
entertainment provided were nothing so very wonderful, but it was our
first glimpse of foreign life for some five or six years. We were young
and athirst for adventure, and with our unseen patron behind us we were
pretty certain that before long we should be brought into touch with
interesting things. So far we had spent a week in Brussels, and no word
had followed the mandate which had sent us there. We had been perfectly
content, however, to wait our time and take our nightly part in the
performances. Rose had made quite a hit with her topical songs and
graceful dancing. Leonard's droll stories were much appreciated by an
audience which during the last four years had received a mighty English
lesson. My own baritone songs were well enough received, and we
thoroughly enjoyed the cosmopolitan habit established at the little
music hall of coming down to one of the tables in the café between our
turns and taking our place amongst the audience. Rose was somewhat of a
responsibility to us, but since the affair Kinlosti she had shunned all
new acquaintances and was quite content that we should play the part of
watchdogs. Even as we sat there that evening, she received with the
pleasant indifference of the true artiste many admiring, many inviting
glances. Prosperity had agreed with Rose, as I suppose it had also with
Leonard and me. The slight thinness of her face, the discontented curl
of the lips, had vanished. Her cheeks had filled out, those wonderful
blue eyes of hers seemed always soft and full of life. She had a
perpetual and distracting smile upon her lips; she moved as one who
walks on air. "The little lady," Monsieur Huber had said to us on the
evening of our first performance, "has the gaiety of Paris. It is
incredible that she is of London. She makes happiness wherever she
goes." And, by the bye, Mr. Huber was not accustomed to overpraise any
artiste to whom he was in the habit of paying a salary.
"Maurice--and you, old solemn-face," Rose said, turning to Leonard, "I
like this place. I am prepared to enjoy myself here. I am more glad than
ever that I sold my soul."
"I am entirely with you," Leonard assented, "so long as the future does
not present any such penalties as the incarceration of the body."
"You're all right," I reminded him. "I'm the person who nearly found
trouble. A few more paragraphs about that mysterious jewel robbery and
the probability of immediate arrest would have sent me into a nervous
decline."
Rose laughed in my face, her white teeth gleaming. The little creases at
the corners of her eyes deepened.
"Rubbish!" she scoffed. "You know perfectly well that you never turned a
hair."
"As a matter of fact," I admitted, "I am beginning to have confidence in
Mr. Mephistopheles Thomson. Whether he is of heaven or earth, of the law
or of the underworld, he seems to have a remarkably good idea of how to
take care of himself and his minions."
"Considering that he has three perfectly good consciences to look after
besides his own," Rose agreed, "I must say that he does very well."
"His interests appear to be somewhat cosmopolitan," Leonard observed,
leaning back in his chair and gazing around him.
"So much the better," Rose declared. "It means plenty of change for us,
and I like change, only this time I hope my affections are not going to
be trifled with."
"You shouldn't wear your heart on your sleeve for sentimental Russians
to nibble at," I ventured.
She made a little grimace. I fancy I should have been the recipient of a
scathing remark but for the approach of Monsieur Huber, the proprietor
of the café. He bowed with great politeness to Rose and handed me a
typewritten envelope of familiar appearance. I tore it open and glanced
at its brief contents:
I beg that you will respond to any advances made to you by any
regular patrons of the Café des Quatres Etoiles.
I held the note out so that the two others could read it. Then I thrust
it into my pocket.
"Mademoiselle sang charmingly to-night," Monsieur Huber declared,
rolling his eyes.
"I didn't see you amongst the audience, Monsieur Huber," she replied
demurely.
"When you sing I am never far away, Mademoiselle," was the impressive
response. "I was standing at the back of the Baroness Spens' box."
Rose glanced upwards at the box which he indicated. A large woman was
seated there, dressed in an elaborate evening gown, with jewels
sparkling from her bosom and hair. She was dark, with a strong masculine
face, a woman who had once, beyond a doubt, been handsome, but whose
countenance was now almost forbidding. I recognised her as one of the
regular patrons of the café.
"The Baroness," Monsieur Huber continued, "is one of my best clients.
She is very good to all my artistes. Sometimes she has them at her home.
She pays, too--pays very well. But excuse me--she calls."
The Baroness, with a short, rather thick-set Belgian girl, and a fat,
elderly man, who had almost fallen on to the stage applauding the little
French soubrette, occupied the stage box, which was on a level with the
promenade. Monsieur Huber hurried over towards it, exchanged a few words
with his patroness and returned to us.
"The Baroness desires that you three will visit her box and take a glass
of wine," he announced, with the air of one conveying a royal command.
"François, a bottle of _34_ to the stage box at once."
Apart from our desire to oblige little Mr. Huber, who was really a most
good-natured person, our recently received mandate left us no
alternative but to comply. We were ushered, therefore, into the box,
where the Baroness received us, rather to my surprise, with the air of a
woman of breeding, the girl without any special enthusiasm, and the old
man, whose eyes were glued upon the soubrette, with indifference. We
were offered chairs and suffered the martyrdom of sweet champagne. The
Baroness said polite things about our performance, enquired about our
impressions of Brussels, and spoke calmly of her residence in the city
during the period of German occupation. Her conversation was easy
enough, and gracious, yet I could not get it out of my head that her
interest in us did not arise solely from the fact of our being
professional entertainers.
"You find it pays," she asked, a little abruptly, "while living in
Brussels is so dear, to perform at this café for Monsieur Huber's
salary?"
"Financially," I admitted, "our trip here is not particularly
remunerative, but we were all three very anxious to get over here and
look around."
"You find it very changed--the city?"
"Only as regards the absence of Germans," I replied. "In the old days
one met them everywhere."
"They will return," she observed.
"But surely they will not be welcome guests?" I ventured.
"Not at first," she answered indifferently. "Brussels, however, is too
cosmopolitan and too near the frontier to preserve her isolation. The
intermarrying alone would prevent any ostracism."
"I hope," I ventured to say, "that they will keep away until our stay
here is over."
She glanced at my stiff left arm.
"You lost that in the War?"
"That and better things," I told her--"a brother, two cousins and an
uncle."
She nodded gravely yet with little pretence at sympathy.
"You English were wonderful," she said coldly.
The little fat man, who had been leaning over the edge of the box,
suddenly turned around, mopping his forehead. He was not a pleasant
sight to look upon. There were wine stains upon his shirt front and
cigar ash upon his waistcoat. His cheeks were pale and puffy; there were
bags underneath his eyes. His grey beard and moustache, though carefully
trimmed, were scanty and unprepossessing.
"But she is wonderful, that little one," he declared. "Marvellous!"
He poured out a glass of wine, ignoring us in his ecstasy. The Baroness
endeavoured to correct his manners.
"You were unfortunate, dear Henri," she said, "that you arrived too late
to hear Mademoiselle Mindel sing and to watch her dance. You would have
thought less of your little French girl's performance."
Monsieur Henri recovered himself sufficiently to bow to Rose.
"It will be my pleasure another evening," he said. "Meanwhile, dear
Baroness, if you will excuse me. Mademoiselle expects me. We shall meet
again."
He made us a comprehensive bow and departed. The phlegmatic young woman,
who had been introduced to us as Mademoiselle Trudens, muttered
something in Flemish as he left the box. The Baroness shook her head
reprovingly.
"Monsieur Henri Destin," she pronounced, "is a person of importance. One
must humour his whims."
Leonard glanced at his watch and rose.
"I fear that I must be excused, Baroness," he regretted. "My turn to
sing is close at hand."
We also rose. The Baroness eyed us reflectively.
"I am having a few friends out to supper to-night at my chateau," she
said. "It will give me great pleasure if you will come after the
performance. My car will be at the stage door at half-past eleven, and I
shall send you back to your hotel."
Her thoughtful hesitation before extending the invitation had been so
apparent that we should never have dreamed of accepting it but for our
mandate. As it was, we had no alternative. We professed ourselves
delighted, and were permitted to depart.
* * * * *
The automobile which awaited us at the stage door at the conclusion of
the performance, and which contained our prospective hostess only, was
the swiftest and most luxurious in which we had any of us ever ridden.
We passed over several miles of cobbled streets with incredible speed,
penetrated some distance into the country, and finally turned in at an
avenue which led through a dense wood and terminated in front of a
chateau, finely situated and of imposing proportions. Even as we
descended, however, a curious fact concerning it occurred both to
Leonard and myself. The Baroness, who must have been watching us more
closely than I had imagined, surprised me by referring to it.
"You are wondering why half my chateau is illuminated and the remainder
is in darkness, is it not so?" she enquired. "Well, I will tell you.
The portion which you see in darkness was the headquarters of the most
detested German who ever set foot in this country during the enemy
occupation of the city. Since his departure, I have not yet been able to
accustom myself to the existence of apartments in which he and his suite
lived and breathed."
She spoke with a little undernote of passion, waited for no comment from
us, but led the way into the brightly lit hall, where servants relieved
us of our wraps and we were at once made conscious of an air of luxury
and comfort. The apartment into which we were presently shown was almost
stately in its proportions, and as a pleasure room almost unique. At one
end was a little raised stage for theatrical performances, occupied now
by a small orchestra; and fitted into the wall was an electric organ.
There was a considerable space of polished floor for dancing, and at the
opposite end of the apartment a large round table laid for supper.
"I fear," the Baroness confided, "that my apartment resembles too much a
restaurant. Still, what can one do? My friends love dancing informally,
the men love their supper, and this huge apartment, which was built for
a music room, would be wasted if I used it in any other fashion. We have
a custom here which always prevails. Supper is served at 12.30. As
guests arrive, they seat themselves."
"We shall find no difficulty in accommodating ourselves to your
delightful customs," I assured her, as we took the places she indicated.
"One must dine at six while our present engagement is on, and it seems a
long time ago."
The precise character of that entertainment, the status of the guests
who presently arrived, and the significance of the whole affair to us
personally puzzled us all for a long time. Several beautiful ladies
arrived, of apparently satisfactory social position, not possessed of a
universal desire to attach themselves to something responsive amongst
the male sex. Madame Sara Clèry, of the French Opera Company, a cousin
of our hostess, was kind enough to show a marked interest in me and my
presence in Brussels.
"Tell me, Monsieur," she begged, in her very attractive undertone, as we
sat in a corner after a waltz, "why are you really in Brussels? You tell
me that you perform at the Café des Quatres Etoiles, but that is a joke,
is it not?"
"Nothing of the sort, indeed, Madame," I assured her. "I am there on a
short engagement with my two friends. I am merely what we call in
English a strolling mountebank."
"You had no other reason, then, for coming to Brussels?" she persisted.
"Unless I was subconsciously aware of the joy in store for me in meeting
Madame," I answered, "there was no other reason."
"Or in coming to this house?'"