Again as the door swung to behind them, they were greeted by sounds of
merriment and dancing, only here the abandon was wilder than at Vienna.
Hindwood saw at a glance that this was no assemblage of alien hucksters,
drawn from all the world to gather bargains. As regards the men, they
were devil-may-care and smart, of the same type as Captain Lajos--the
sort who would follow the game to the last throw of the dice. Many of
them had made no attempt to disguise their profession; they were clad in
gorgeous uniforms of Hungarian regiments long since ordered disbanded
by the Allies. Their breasts were ablaze with Imperial decorations. They
strode the marble floors with the clink of spurs and the rattling of
swords. While they drugged the midnight hours with laughter and debauch,
their faces were feverish with listening expectancy--the expectancy of
an event for which they waited.
The women looked like captives of a raid. Some hung back timidly; some
were bold with wine; all were weary and pinched with hunger. Like the
men, they seemed only to be acting a part. In the midst of recklessness
they would give way to distaste, as though remorseful of this way of
combating starvation.
With the stench of the death train still in his nostrils, Hindwood
stared at the spectacle in pity and disgust. “Fiddling while Rome is
burning,” he muttered.
His elbow was jogged by a black-coated individual with the appeasing
manners of a tailor.
“I understand English. What is it you desire?”
Hindwood swung round. “So much the better. I want what one usually wants
at a hotel--accommodation.”
The man rubbed his hands. “Sorry, sir. We're full up. Every room, in
fact every lounge is taken.”
“You'll have to find something. I have a military order.”
Having read it the man returned the slip of paper. “That's different.
You're here on Government business--for the same purpose as these other
gentlemen, I take it?”
Hindwood replied non-committally. “Yes, on Government business.”
“In that case I'll give you a room in the basement--a servant's, my
last. It's all I have to offer.”
“But two rooms are necessary. I have my secretary with me--this lady.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “To demand the impossible is useless.
To-morrow--who knows? If things happen, I may be able to give you more
rooms than you require. For the present...”
Seeing that nothing was to be gained by arguing, Hindwood consented to
the arrangement.
“The room will be my secretary's. If you'll lend me blankets, I'll find
a place in the passage.”
The room proved to be poor in the extreme--nothing but four bare walls
and an iron cot. When he had turned the key he tiptoed over to Santa.
“What's this monstrous thing for which they're waiting--this something
that may happen to-morrow?”
She placed her hands in his, as though she felt the need of protection.
Her golden face was tragic. “War.”
His common sense revolted. Though everything seemed to prove her guess
correct, he refused to accept it. “War! It can't be. What would any one
gain by it? It was war that produced all this hideous mess--the death
train and all that. Besides, how can people fight who can scarcely
crawl? They have one foot in the grave already. Ten well-fed men could
defeat a battalion. Whatever's in the wind, it isn't war. To launch a
war requires money.”
“With you it's always money. To launch this kind of a war requires
nothing but despair.”
Stepping back from him tempestuously, she flung herself full length on
the cot. Her face was hidden, buried in the pillow. While she lay
there tense, the sound of dance-music, advancing and retreating, tapped
dreamily against the walls. It spoke to him of romance, of a woman he
could love, and of passion snatched perilously before life ended, in a
mysterious city after nightfall.
She had raised herself and was regarding him feverishly. Her red lips
were parted as with thirst.
“I know you so well,” she was saying softly; “I know you because I love
you. You refuse to believe it's war because you wouldn't be able to sell
and bargain. But it is war--the sort of war we saw at the frontier:
a war in which weaponless millions will march to the overthrow of
embattled thousands.”
“You're unjust.” He spoke patiently. “I'm unwilling to believe it's war
because I can't see any reason for it.”
“Any reason!” Her eyes became twin storms. “Would you require a reason
if you'd seen your children die for lack of bread? You'd perish gladly,
if you could first tear the throat out of one person who was too well
nourished.”
He went and stood beside her, stooping over her, placing his hand
against her forehead. “You're burning. You've been through too much. Get
some rest. To-morrow we'll find Anna and perhaps Var-ensky; it's more
than likely they'll be able to tell us.” He paused. “I know what makes
you so relentless; it's your own dead child--”
Her arms shot up, dragging him down and nestling his face against her
breast. “Oh, my man, it's not that. It's that I'm jealous for you--so
afraid you may deceive yourself and miss your chance.” He stumbled back
from the temptation of her yielding body and the comfort of her fragrant
warmth.
“My chance is yours; we may both have been born for this moment.”
Long after he had stretched himself outside her door, he felt that in
the austerity of the four bare walls she still crouched watching from
her bed.