_DANAOS DONA FERENTES._
Telling Mansfield that he was going for a stroll, and should
probably lunch at Princess Soudaroff’s--a piece of information that
filled the secretary with unavailing envy--Cyril took the road which
led to the villa occupied by the Princess of Dardania. Reaching the
door, he was greeted with stares of surprise by the servants on the
steps and in the hall, and his request to be permitted to wait upon
the Princess was regarded with amazement, not unmixed with suspicion.
“Her Royal Highness does not receive visitors,” he was told, while his
card was handed round and scrutinised with something of awe.
“I think her Royal Highness will receive me,” he answered calmly,
wishing he was as sure of the fact as he pretended to be. No one knew
better than he did that he was making a hazardous stroke. If it
failed, his old enemy would have scored a point. But his confident air
impressed the servants sufficiently to induce them to carry his name
to the Princess, and her reception of it established him in their
respect. Princess Ottilie was beginning to be anxious about the
fulfilment of her compact with Prince Soudaroff. Two days had passed
since his visit, and she had made no progress towards securing the
coveted governorship for her son. Worse than this, there seemed to be
no means even of sounding Cyril upon the subject, unless she went so
far as to make direct advances, such as he would probably take delight
in repulsing. Not knowing that she had become necessary to his
schemes, she had never dared to hope that the first overtures would
come from him, and the announcement that he asked to see her was music
in her ears. She gave orders that he should be admitted at once, and
when he was ushered into her boudoir he found her standing beside the
table to receive him, a majestic figure in her sweeping black robes.
Why was it that Cyril’s heart flew straightway to another woman who
had worn similar weeds, which, so far from enhancing such beauty as
she possessed, had only served to accentuate the slenderness of her
form and deprive her of every vestige of colour? The Princess of
Dardania looked more magnificent even than of old, the severity of the
garb exhibiting her stately stature to the fullest advantage.
“A year ago,” she said, “I should have hesitated to receive Count
Mortimer, fearing that he came as an enemy; but now”--her eyes strayed
to the large portrait of her late husband which stood upon the
table--“I cannot believe that he would seek my presence with the
desire of adding to my misfortunes.”
“Indeed, madame, my sole reason for entreating an audience is the
double hope of doing you a service and of obtaining a favour from
you.”
“Tell me the last first, Count, that I may at any rate have the
pleasure of granting it.”
“It grows out of the first, madame, and I will therefore ask
permission to defer it for a moment. Your Royal Highness will
recollect that when we last met I had the misfortune to differ from
you with regard to the affairs of Thracia?”
The Princess remembered Prince Soudaroff’s hint, and trembled in spite
of herself. Had her old enemy come to announce the downfall of her
dearest hopes? She inclined her head slightly in answer to the
question, but said nothing.
“You favoured a certain policy, madame, which I opposed. Your advice
prevailed. I bowed to circumstances, and quitted Thracia. I have now
no wish to disturb the settlement then arrived at, although I think
your Royal Highness will perceive presently that I could easily do
so.”
“I don’t understand you, Count. Pray do not speak in riddles.”
“To speak plainly, madame, the King of Thracia has been seized with a
violent--we will hope only evanescent--passion for my niece.”
“Surely you forget that his Majesty is betrothed to my daughter,
Count?”
“Say rather, madame, that his Majesty has forgotten it, since this
morning he directed me to make formal proposals to my brother for his
daughter’s hand.”
“Oh, really, Count, this is too absurd! His Majesty must be out of his
mind.”
“The derangement is merely temporary, madame. My niece regards it in
that light, I assure you. She was horrified by the King’s proposal.”
“I congratulate you on the good sense of the young lady, Count.”
“I am indeed to be congratulated, madame; but I can see that this
vexatious affair may have disagreeable consequences, of which my niece
does not dream. I understand that at the picnic yesterday his Majesty
made her unpleasantly conspicuous by his attentions. Her natural
impulse is to leave Ludwigsbad immediately; but such a flight would
only cause the sensation we wish to avoid. You acknowledge, madame,
that Lady Philippa has behaved well, you have honoured her parents
with your friendship--you must see that there is only one means of
averting such gossip as would be equally painful to you and to them.”
The Princess’s countenance cleared. “Have you heard, Count, that my
daughter hurt her foot yesterday, and is condemned to the sofa for
several days? She has conceived a romantic attachment for your pretty
niece, and it would cheer her to have her society. Do you think Lady
Philippa’s excellent godmother would spare her to us for a week? If
so, I will send Countess Birnsdorf to bring her here.”
“I feel sure that Princess Soudaroff will rejoice to sacrifice herself
on Princess Lida’s behalf, madame. The King, of course----”
“The King is about to join a shooting-party in the mountains. I heard
the news just before you came.”
“That removes my sole anxiety, madame. Your Royal Highness will
condescend to accept my thanks for your great kindness?”
“Wait, Count. There is something I wish to say. Do you remember
telling me that if I tried to rule the Balkans without your help I
should fail? It is true; I have proved it. But who could have imagined
that it would be the ingratitude and disobedience of my own children
which would bring about the fulfilment of your prophecy?”
“You have my sincerest sympathy, madame.”
“My eldest daughter, as you know, is married to King Albrecht of
Mœsia. I thought him all I could desire; he seemed thoroughly in
sympathy with my schemes; but no sooner was he married than he became
a German of the Germans, and Bettine followed his example. Thus I lost
Mœsia from my Slavonic confederation. But with my son it was even
worse. You know, of course, that he was to marry the Grand-Duchess
Sonya Eugenovna. Her mother has long been dead, and she spent much of
her time with me. All seemed to go well between her and Alexis; but
shortly before his father died, when I wished him to propose to her,
he refused flatly. He had met Princess Emilia of Magnagrecia at the
Pannonian Court, and declared that he would marry no one else. In vain
I pointed out the disgrace he was bringing upon me; he married
Princess Emilia a month ago; and now I am only welcome in Dardania, as
in Mœsia, on sufferance. Surely even you must pity me?”
“Madame,” interposed Cyril, in tones of deep emotion, “your gracious
confidence forces me to speak. The idea of detaching your son from the
Grand-Duchess Sonya, and attracting him to the lady who is now his
wife, was mine.”
The Princess sat as if stunned. She had known the truth perfectly
well, and Cyril was aware of this. It was his confession that took her
by surprise. “You have made amends by your chivalrous action to-day,”
she said at last, with a sad smile.
“Your kindness overwhelms me, madame. Have I your Highness’s
permission to retire? I know my presence must be distasteful.”
“No; there is something else you can do, Count. I have another son,
and I have set my heart on his becoming governor of Palestine. That is
in your power to bring about.”
“Alas, madame! Why ask me the one impossible thing? The decision does
not rest with me, nor even with my friends.”
The Princess smiled more gently still. “I must take the will for the
deed, I suppose?” she said. “That is poor comfort for an anxious
mother, Count. But don’t think I blame you. You will come here
occasionally when your niece is with us, and assure yourself that we
are taking proper care of her? We need not sadden the young with the
knowledge of our troubles. Come as often as you like, and do not feel
compelled to ask for me. I cannot forget that I am growing old.”
“Then, madame, you succeed where all the rest of the world has
failed,” responded Cyril, kissing the beautiful hand she held out to
him. His manner was remorseful, and his eyes lingered on her face as
he left the room. As soon as he was gone, the Princess crossed the
floor to a large mirror.
“He was more nearly human than I have ever known him,” she mused.
“What can it be?” She smiled consciously as her eyes fell upon the
reflection in the glass. “Would it be possible? What a triumph! to
have him at my feet! But he is dangerous; I dare not trust him. There
is Ernestine, too; I must sound him on that subject. That will give me
some clue to his present feelings. He is open to conviction on the
subject of Kazimir, I think; but even that would be nothing in
comparison with the joy of snatching him from Ernestine. But I must
not think of that. I must keep cool. If he once gets the upper hand,
all is lost. I am glad I thought of giving him a general invitation.
Ah, Birnsdorf,” as the lady-in-waiting appeared at the door, “I want
you to take one of the carriages, and go to Princess Soudaroff’s
lodgings. You will carry a note from me, and bring back Lady Philippa
Mortimer. Impress upon the old fanatic that Lida is making herself ill
for want of the girl, and say anything else that occurs to you as
likely to weigh with her.”
Countess Birnsdorf curtseyed and retired, and executed her mission
with so much success that Philippa returned with her to the villa
within an hour. Cyril had prepared Princess Soudaroff’s mind for the
request, and the Countess worked skilfully upon her feelings; hence
the easy victory.
The week of Philippa’s stay at the villa--a stay which she discovered
to be intended as a reward for what Countess Birnsdorf called the
“delicate correctness” of her conduct--was not a period of unmixed
bliss. The house and grounds were beautiful, and the etiquette exacted
by the Princess not excessive, but the atmosphere was new and
disagreeable to Philippa. The air seemed full of plots, every one
appeared to be playing a part, and the unreality oppressed her, while
her usual home remedy for bad spirits, a brisk ride or a long ramble
over the hills, was unattainable. She complained afterwards that she
never had a chance of blowing the cobwebs away, restricted as she was
to stately promenades with Countess Birnsdorf, or funereal drives in a
closed carriage with the Princess. Nor were her troubles wholly
physical. Her father’s wisdom in declining a crown, and preferring
England to the Continent as a residence, commended itself to her more
and more when she told herself that even she, placed in Princess
Lida’s circumstances, might have learned to share her views of right
and wrong. Princess Lida, she found, had fallen deeply in love, not
with King Michael, but with a gentleman occupying an official position
of some sort, to whose identity she gave no clue, intending, possibly,
that Philippa should elicit it by means of cross-examination. But
Philippa was disappointing. She was as much shocked as the Princess
could desire, but not so much at the existence of the attachment as at
the fact that it was not intended to lead to anything more. She
listened with but slight interest to Princess Lida’s vivacious
enumeration of the various artifices by which she and her lover
contrived to carry on their flirtation under the very noses of the
Princess of Dardania and Countess Birnsdorf, and she interrupted the
history of a certain Court ball, at which the pair had succeeded in
exchanging notes, by the question--
“But what do you mean to do about him?”
“Do? What is there to be done? I suppose we shall simply go on.”
“But you can’t intend to marry King Michael when you care for this
other man?”
“Of course I do. It has been arranged for me.”
“What does that signify? It would be wrong.”
“Oh, you English, with your right and wrong! I don’t trouble my head
with all that. I take my pleasure as it comes.”
“But you would be miserable, married to a man you didn’t love.”
“Oh, the good Philippa is trying to persuade me to run away with the
other! I must tell mamma. She little thinks what a serpent she has
welcomed into her home, to poison the innocent mind of her child! But
you mistake me, my Lippchen. The misery would be if I married the
other. I want jewellery and Paris gowns and a gay Court, not love in
a four-roomed flat. One of the Pannonian Archduchesses has tried that.
She comes to the Schloss (only to family gatherings, of course) in a
common cab, and makes her own dresses, I believe. Can you imagine my
doing that sort of thing?”
“I never thought of advising you to run away,” said Philippa
indignantly, “and if you are only thinking of what you can get, you
had certainly better not try it. But you could remain unmarried. That
would be better than----”
“Than marrying the King? Thank you, Lippchen! It’s quite clear that
you don’t know the sort of life a Princess leads if she doesn’t happen
to marry. No position, no independence, patronised and pushed aside by
her relations, obliged to become a dowdy old devotee through sheer
terror of scandal, for there is no mercy for any one who is remotely
suspected of a tendency to disgrace the house. A convent or a
fortress, there’s your choice! No, I shall marry King Michael and keep
him in order, at any rate in public, and we will have the gayest Court
in Europe. Oh, you may trust me to keep up appearances when I have got
the reality.”
Philippa was too much disgusted to answer, and Princess Lida, turning
restlessly on her couch, broke into a laugh at the sight of her
disapproving face.
“You are too delightfully innocent, Lippchen! But, after all, I am in
the right. My mother has brought me up, educated me, trained me, with
the sole intention of my making this marriage. You would not have me
disappoint her--and myself? Is that how you intend to treat your
parents when they present your future husband to you?”
“People don’t do that in England,” with dignity.
“Not among the lower orders, I know, but you are ‘highly well-born,’
as we say in German. Let us imagine an instance.” Princess Lida raised
herself on her elbow. “Suppose that secretary of your uncle’s declared
to you that he had conceived a passion for you”--she watched with
delight the flood of crimson which overspread Philippa’s face at this
rude handling of the secret, the existence of which she had scarcely
owned even to herself--“and you were not insensible to it----”
“You have no right whatever to say such things!” cried Philippa,
finding her tongue.
“But, my Lippchen,” with extreme simplicity, “no one could have seen
the poor young man in your society the other day without perceiving
what his feelings were. Your response I am only imagining for the sake
of argument. Well, your parents declare the idea preposterous, and
inform you that you have been destined all your life for some elderly
red-faced provincial nobleman. What will you do?”
“Of course I would never marry any one without my father’s consent.
But I should ask him to tell me his objections, and I know he would
treat me as a reasonable being. Perhaps he might change his mind after
a time, but if not, I should go on just as I was. He would never try
to make me marry any one else.”
“Oh, you are too good, you and your parents!” cried Princess Lida, as
Philippa, her fair face crimson, put forth her defence like a
defiance; “but I have not such a considerate mother, and mamma has not
such an easily contented daughter. You see, the game would not be
worth the candle in my case.”
“That means you don’t love the other one well enough to give up
anything for his sake?”
“Exactly. I want to keep what I have, and to get all I can. Meanwhile,
I enjoy myself--quite decorously and without hurting any one.”
“But surely you are hurting him?”
“How? Oh, you mean if it came out. But I shan’t let it out, you see,
nor will he, for he is far too comfortable in his present post, just
as I am. Why shouldn’t I amuse myself like every one else? Mamma will
have her train of adorers as soon as she receives people again. Even
now she has your beloved uncle.”
“Princess!” Philippa’s cry was a passionate contradiction.
Princess Lida laughed. “Why, poor innocent Lippchen, you don’t imagine
that Count Mortimer comes here every day to see you? It is my mother
who is the attraction, not his dutiful niece. What! have I broken
another idol?”
For Philippa had sprung up with an inarticulate exclamation and rushed
out of the room. The sting of the accusation lay in the fact that her
reason assured her of its truth. It was not to see her that Cyril paid
his daily visits to the villa, passing on invariably from the large
drawing-room into the boudoir beyond, there to pay his respects to the
Princess. These interviews were protracted far beyond the limits
ordained by ceremony, and Countess Birnsdorf had felt it necessary to
apologise for their length by observing to Philippa that she was quite
glad to see Count Mortimer coming in, for no one else had been able to
induce the Princess to forget her sorrows in conversation since her
bereavement. This information Philippa had received with a certain
reserve, for the Princess had not struck her as overwhelmed with
grief; but she saw now that the old lady had been endeavouring to
divert her mind from a suspicion that had already troubled herself.
But had the idea occurred to Cyril? Could he know that the purport of
his visits was thus interpreted? Surely it could only be that,
impelled at first merely by the desire of cheering the Princess, he
had afterwards been attracted by the conversation of a clever and
brilliant woman? At any rate, he should be warned what people were
saying about him. With this resolve strong in her mind Philippa walked
to the garden-gate to meet her uncle, attended only by Princess Lida’s
white poodle. One glance at her troubled face showed Cyril that
something serious was in the air; but, in his usual teasing fashion,
he talked continuously on indifferent subjects. When they came in
sight of the house Philippa stopped short, in agony lest the
opportunity should be lost.
“Uncle Cyril, I want to ask you something. Is the Princess a friend of
yours? Usk and I always thought she had done something to injure you.”
“So she did, Phil. But is it your creed that once an enemy always an
enemy? No? Then you see I too can be virtuous and overlook my enemies’
faults--sometimes.”
“But they say--they say you want to marry her,” Philippa succeeded in
bringing out.
“Do they? How kind of them! Would you like the Princess for an aunt,
Phil? She’s a charming woman, isn’t she?”
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, you wouldn’t--you don’t mean it?”
“Well, Phil, I have no present intention of inviting her to become
your aunt. Would you like to know why? Because I am afraid she would
say no, of course, and your feelings might be hurt.”
They had reached the villa by this time, and Philippa was left to her
own gloomy reflections. Whether her uncle was in earnest or not, it
was quite clear that he had no intention of taking her into his
confidence, and it did not occur to her that in the circumstances this
might be rather advantageous than otherwise. The least suspicious of
mortals, Philippa had not discovered that she was persistently
catechised as to Cyril’s future plans and his past history. The art
with which the subject was approached and the questions put was such
that she had no idea of its existence, nor yet of the fact that her
honest answers often caused much irritation to the questioner.
Philippa knew nothing of her uncle but what he chose to tell her,
together with the deductions drawn by Usk and herself from this
evidence, and she could not tell more than she knew. The Princess was
particularly curious as to the footing upon which Cyril now stood with
Queen Ernestine. Did he keep up any communication with her, or had
they parted for ever? Philippa had heard from Mansfield of Prince
Mirkovics’s defence of Queen Ernestine, and her prejudices were
somewhat modified; but she was still firm in the belief that her uncle
had been very badly treated. It was, therefore, not without
satisfaction that she informed the Princess of Cyril’s request, on his
return from Thracia, that the Queen’s name should not be mentioned in
his hearing, and added that, so far as she knew, he was of the same
mind still.
“And you are all considerate enough to do as he asked?” cried the
Princess, with a laugh in which relief mingled with something of
pique. “Why, if I were one of his family, and he had made such a
request of me, I should have done nothing but tease him to find out
what he really felt.”
Acting, presumably, upon this principle, the Princess prepared to seek
information from the best authority, since Philippa could tell her so
little. When she received Cyril that afternoon, she was sad and
preoccupied, and smiled only with difficulty.
“I fear you have had bad news, madame?” he suggested at last.
“Now how did you guess that?” she asked gratefully. “Yes, I have such
a painful account of my cousin, Queen Ernestine, from Syria.” Her
fingers played carelessly with a letter bearing a Roumi stamp as she
spoke. The letter was more than a year old, but Cyril was not supposed
to know that.
“Her Majesty is ill, madame?” he asked, in precisely the right tone of
respectful sympathy. A single glance had shown him that the letter was
not black-edged, and there was no fear that any news but the worst
would make him betray himself.
“No, not exactly ill; but she is subject to such strange delusions. We
hoped that the change of scene might benefit her, but I fear there can
be no doubt that her mind is permanently affected. Would you believe
it?--she will not see a man, or allow one to approach her. You know
she is residing with the Königshof deaconesses at their Institution
at Brutli, in the Lebanon? Well, I hear that only her ladies and
female attendants are allowed to be with her there--the gentlemen must
live in the village. It is entirely her own doing, for the Institution
would be quite willing to receive them, but she refuses to see even
the pastor belonging to the place. Isn’t it extraordinary?”
“Most extraordinary, madame.”
“And she has returned to the very deepest widow’s mourning, only
wearing white instead of black. It almost seems,” added the Princess
musingly, stealing a glance at Cyril from under the hand which was
shading her eyes, “as if she had had some experience which had
prejudiced her against your sex.”
“That seems the most probable explanation, madame. The difference with
his Majesty, perhaps----”
“Oh, I don’t think that would account for it; do you? No, on second
thoughts I rather fancy she must be conscious of having done a great
injury to some man, so that remorse drives her to this seclusion.”
“It is possible, madame. There have been cases in which women have
ruined the lives of men who were foolish enough to trust them.”
“You speak bitterly, Count. And what, in your opinion, is the usual
effect of such behaviour upon the man?”
“Simply, madame, that he determines never to place his future in the
power of a woman again.”
“Ah, you cherish your hatred so long, you men! We women soon grow
tired of perpetual animosities. But have you ever known what it is to
be so deceived, Count?”
“I have, madame.”
“And--and did you come to the usual determination?”
“Madame, I thought I had--until a week ago.”
The compliment was commonplace enough, but something in the tome, and
in the glance which accompanied it, thrilled the heart of the
Princess. Almost for the first time in her life she blushed like a
girl, and she changed the subject with a haste and maladroitness that
showed how deeply she was moved.
“By-the-bye, Count, I want you to tell me how your scheme is
progressing. Is it true that, as I see by this morning’s paper,
opposition to it is springing up in England?”
“Scarcely, madame. A vexatious incident has occurred, that is all.”
“Pray tell me about it. I thought you felt quite safe with regard to
your own country?”
“True, madame, except for such incidents as this. Before coming here,
I arranged matters with the Dowager Duchess of Old Sarum.”
“The Dowager? But has she any influence in politics?”
“The Duchess, madame, like my niece’s kind friend Princess Soudaroff,
is a lady who takes a deep interest in the conversion of the Jews to
Christianity. Fifty or sixty years ago people of her stamp believed
that the Jews could only be restored to Palestine in a Christianised
condition, and they founded the Jerusalem bishopric in order that the
converts might find some one there to receive them. Now their views
have undergone a slight change, and they think that the return to
Palestine is to come first and the conversion after it. Naturally,
then, they wish to hasten on the restoration, in order that the second
desirable event may follow as quickly as possible. Before leaving
England I had a long confidential talk with the Duchess, laid my plans
before her, and pointed out the dangers to which they were exposed.
She grasped the idea at once, and immediately volunteered her help to
smooth matters in England. I accepted it gladly, for she has a strong
influence over her son, the present Duke, and she is the sister of Mr
Forfar. Oh, the Duchess is a dear old lady!”
“But surely she has failed you now?”
“By no means, madame. It is a sad fact that there are some people in
England who take no interest in the conversion of the Jews--rather
dislike them than otherwise, indeed. The most prominent of these
anti-Semites (they are very mild, you understand) is Lord Ormsea, who
holds a minor post in the administration. He has picked up some
garbled idea of our intentions from the Continental press, and
speaking two nights ago at a public meeting, he thought fit to
denounce our scheme, and to invite the hostile attention of the Powers
to it. That’s all.”
“And what measures do you intend to take?”
“I hear from my friend the Chevalier Goldberg that he has arranged for
a fall in the price of Consols, madame, but I have told him that is a
mistake. The fall could not affect British credit, but it would give
colour to the accusations of Ormsea and his crew, and might stimulate
the nation to active hostility. England won’t stand being bullied,
though she will yield a good deal to friendly representations. I have
written to the Duchess, and I don’t doubt that the Government will
bring Ormsea to his senses in a very short time. Meanwhile, I hope the
financial panic may be stopped before anything serious happens.”
“I wish you would tell me how you manage that sort of thing,” sighed
the Princess.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, madame,” was the reply, delivered
with so much suavity that the Princess could not decide whether want
of will or want of ability constituted the obstacle.
“After all, England has very little interest in the matter,” she said.
“Little enough, madame, especially after declaring, in one of her
periodical self-denying ordinances, that in no case would she permit
an Englishman to become governor of Palestine.”
“You do not always see eye to eye with your countrymen, Count?”
“I fear, madame, that I can scarcely consider myself an Englishman at
this late day, although my enemies are fond of saluting me with the
name.”
There was meaning in Cyril’s tone, although the eyes which met those
of the Princess were devoid of expression, and a novel and by no means
unpleasant idea struck her. She was revolving it hastily in her mind
when she spoke next, somewhat absently.
“Has anything happened?--does the deadlock still exist between your
Syndicate and Scythia?”
“There is no alteration, madame. Before Scythia will allow us to have
Palestine, she demands a promise that your son shall be the first
governor.”
“It is a great pity--I mean that such a good work should be stopped.
Will you accept me as an auxiliary, Count? or am I too transparent a
plotter? I will write to Pavelsburg, and represent that you are
powerless in the matter. Then perhaps the stipulation may be
withdrawn.”
“Madame, I am overjoyed by your condescension.” Cyril did not consider
it necessary to say that in any case the joint pressure of famine and
poverty must cause the withdrawal of Scythian opposition in a day or
two.
“Oh, I assure you it will be a great delight if I can give you any
help. You will let me know how your difficulty with England ends? We
shall miss your charming niece terribly. I hope Princess Soudaroff
will spare her to us for a day now and then while she remains at
Ludwigsbad.”
Cyril retired, well content. He had secured what was of the greatest
moment to him, an invitation to continue his visits to the villa after
Philippa had quitted it on the morrow. When he had left her, the
Princess sat for some time musing deeply.
“I cannot be sure,” she murmured at last. “It is true that he seems to
have no feeling for Ernestine but that of dislike--certainly he does
not love her at this moment--but one can never tell. They might meet,
and the sight of her might revive all the old feelings. Those
caressing ways of hers!--and he is just the man to take a whimsical
pleasure in her perpetual inconsistency. How is he to be tested? for
I dare not risk anything until I am sure of him. He and I, reigning in
Palestine! _Palestine_? we would rule the world. How I should triumph
over Alexis and Bettine and the Powers! But there is always Ernestine
in the background. How am I to be rid of the fear of her? Ah, that
photograph! That will do what I want. He comes again, say, in a week;
there will be time to have it enlarged. Birnsdorf!” she raised her
voice, and the Countess entered, “I want you to write a letter to
Vindobona for me at once.”