"You wouldn't believe me?" she asked.
"What I believe and do not believe, dear Countess, should not disturb
you in the slightest."
"I thought we were friends."
"Do you _really_ think so?"
"I hope so. I wish it--if you do. And friendship does not fear
confidences."
"Neutrals have no confidences to make. My country is not at war."
"Is not your heart enlisted?" she asked, smilingly.
"Is yours?"
"Yes, it is! See how my friendship refuses no confidence when you ask?
_I_ do not hesitate."
"On which side," said I, warily, "is your heart enlisted?"
"Shall I tell you?"
"If you care to."
She sat looking at me intently, her soft hand in mine. Then, with a
pretty gesture, she placed the other hand over it, and her shoulder came
into contact with mine.
"I am Russian," she said. "Is that not an answer?"
"So is Puppsky," I remarked.
For a second an odd expression came over her face and it turned quite
white. Then she laughed.
"I'll tell you something," she said. "I have a girl friend. I love her
dearly. I have a country. I love it still more dearly. The girl I
love is Adelaide, Grand Duchess of Luxemburg. Prussia has practically
annexed it. The country I love is Russia. Prussia holds it.... Do you
still doubt me?"
"Good Lord," thought I, "how this girl can lie!" But I said: "Tell me
about Luxemburg, Countess. Is it true that Prince Ruprecht of Bavaria
means to marry the seventeen-year-old sister of the Grand Duchess
Adelaide?"
"Yes," she said. And I distinctly heard her teeth snap.
"What sort of man is Ruprecht?" I inquired, to steer the conversation
toward easier ground.
"Ruprecht! Did you ever see him?"
"No."
"Well, he has the manners of the barn-yard and the distinction of a
scullion! Picture to yourself a man of fifty-seven with a head as
square as a battered bullet and the bodily grace of a new-born camel.
He is the stupidest, coarsest, commonest vulgarian in Europe.
"Why, the man is ridiculous! He once set all Munich laughing by
appearing in the English Garden on skates wearing his spurs and saber.
And all his military suite had to do likewise. Picture the result--and
Ruprecht scarcely knew how to stand on the ice! Why their swords got
between their legs and their spurs did the rest, and the entire lake
resounded with the incessant crash of falling warriors."
She threw back her head and laughed; and I laughed too.
"Such a brute," she said. "His first wife, daughter of that kindly and
philanthropic oculist, Karl Theodore of Tegernsee, died of his neglect
and ill treatment. And now, at fifty-seven, he rolls his hog's eyes in
his freckled face and smirks at a seventeen-year-old child--God help
her!"
I gazed in amazement at the Countess Manntrapp. This was acting with a
vengeance. Such perfection, such flawless interpretation of the role
she was playing for my benefit, I had never dreamed possible. No emotion
could appear more genuine, no sincerity more perfectly mimicked. Here
was an actress without equal in my entire experience.
Suddenly I caught her eye, and turned very red.
"You don't believe me," she said calmly, and dropped her head.
There was a painful silence between us. Presently she looked up at me,
flushed, curious, amused:
"You take me for a Hun, don't you?"
"If you are not pro-German," said I, much embarrassed, "what are you
doing with those people?"
"Watching them. And you don't believe that, either?"
"I'm sorry, Countess."
"Why do you doubt me?"
"Because only a pro-German would confide to a stranger that she is not
one. Were you really in the Allied service you'd keep your own council.
Secret agents don't betray themselves to strangers. You have no means of
knowing where my sympathies lie. How do you know I am not pro-German?"
"By your letters."
"My letters?"
"I opened several," she said naively.
"Where!"
"In Berne."
"You stole my letters?"
"Yes, I had to."
"How did you do it?"
"The postman is in my pay."
"That," said I angrily, "is a most outrageous confession, Countess."
"But I had to know what your politics are," she explained gently.
"Besides, if I had not stolen all your letters the Swiss authorities
would have opened them and found out that you are pro-Ally in sentiment.
And then you would not have been permitted to come here and live in this
house. And all these people would not have come here either. And I
should have had nobody to help me while keeping these people under
surveillance."
"You count on me to help you?" I demanded, too astonished to remain
angry.
"May I not?" she asked sweetly.
"So that's the reason," said I, "that you let me kiss you."
"I must be honest, it is."
With every atom of conceit knocked out of me, wincing, chagrined, I
found nothing to say to this pretty woman who sat so close beside me and
looked at me with a half smile hovering on her lips and out of sweet,
dark eyes that seemed utterly honest--God help her.
"It is only your vanity that is smarting a little," she said, smiling,
"not your heart. I haven't touched that at all."
"How do you know?" I retorted.
"Because you are in love with somebody else, Mr. O'Ryan."
"With whom?" I demanded defiantly.
"I don't know. But you are in love. A woman can tell."
"I am _not_ in love," said I with angry emphasis, recollecting the
treatment meted out to me by Thusis. "I'm not in love with anybody." I
caught her doubting but interested eyes fixed intently on me--"unless,"
I added recklessly, "I'm in love with you."
"But you're not."
We looked at each other curiously, almost searchingly, not inclined to
laugh yet ready, perhaps, for further mischief. Why not preoccupy my
mind with this amusing and pretty woman, and slay in my heart all regard
for Thusis?
So I kissed her with that object in view. She said nothing--scarcely
defended herself--sitting with pretty head lowered and white jeweled
hands tightly folded in her lap.
"I'll take you trout-fishing," said I, determined to exterminate and
root out all tender memories of Thusis.