Читать книгу The Day the World Ended - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 22

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When I joined Mme. Yburg at the Casino, her manner struck me as odd. She was charming as ever, conveying that sense of coolness, physical as well as mental, which was part and parcel of her personality. She wore green, with a little tight-fitting hat which for some reason set me thinking of gnomes and fairies—and so brought back a memory of the grotto under the Devil’s Elbow.

Her beautiful, calm eyes studied me with disturbing frankness, as the waiter brought tea.

“Has your busy day been successful?” she asked.

“Not entirely,” I replied. “And yours?”

“I had lunch on the Mercuriusberg,” she said, removing a handbag to make room for the tea tray. “Very much like a tripper, as you call it; but I adore the view.”

“It must be a familiar view?”

She smiled, and glanced aside as the band began to play again. Her long, psychic hands fascinated.

“My husband had a villa here. But we were rarely in Baden.”

“I’m sorry. Have I stirred up unhappy memories?”

“Not at all.” Her regard became fixed upon me once more. “My marriage was not entirely happy—what marriage is? And if I had any regrets, time has softened them. My husband has been dead for eleven years.”

“The war?” I suggested gently.

She nodded.

Upon my sympathy, my natural sympathy with any victim of that ghastly international tragedy, came hot-foot the most poisonous suspicions. She played cleverly. A beautiful widow bereaved by one’s own countrymen or allies—it might be, by one’s own hand—is a distractingly appealing figure. “Mme. Yburg is clever”—the strident voice seemed to ring in my ears. “Play for safety....” Had she been to the Mercuriusberg?

A number of dancers took the floor, and:

“Shall we dance?” I asked.

Mme. Yburg, watching me with those calm eyes in which lay so old and so dearly bought a wisdom as well as a smile which irritated whilst it caressed, shook her head slightly.

“You don’t really want to, do you?”

“Frankly, I don’t. I should rather talk here.”

“So should I.”

As a result, we talked—about a hundred and one things. But never about the Black Forest and its secrets. Mme. Yburg knew the world almost as well as I knew it. My only advantage was in respect of inaccessible spots right off the map. Europe, Asia, Africa, America—she had travelled them all. Her knowledge of human character left me miles behind. She made me feel like an infant. Only when—out of pity, I think, for my masculine inferiority—she led me on to talk of the Sahara and of the unexplored country up the Rio Negro, did I recover my poise. At last:

“There are still a lot of jobs,” she said—she spoke vernacular English in a fascinating unfamiliar way—“which only a man can do.”

Her words awakened me to the passage of time. I had been absorbed in that most delightful task—talking about myself to an attractive and sympathetic woman. The band had ceased, and departed. I glanced at my wrist watch, and:

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Please forgive me! We have barely time to dress!”

“You are forgiven,” said Mme. Yburg. “You have made me forget....”