Читать книгу General Crack - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

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When he arrived at the gates of the Château, the messenger remarked with scorn on the sumptuous prospect.

"All very well," he muttered, "when one's father has been Paymaster General and Viceroy of Naples—oh, yes, we all know what that means—"

He did not relish his errand and with a rather bitter eye viewed the obvious beauties of the scene.

An avenue of lofty trees stretched before him, trees so lofty that they seemed to shake their airy plumes in the clouds which, rosy and gauzy, softened the August cerulean of the high Heavens.

Beneath these trees the rich thick sward showed an unblemished green, and beyond these trees stood the Château of Ottenheim behind terraces with statues and balustrades and vases of handsome leaved plants, all white in the clear, hot, thin sunlight.

The messenger passed through the gilded iron gates, which stood open and unguarded as if contemptuous of intruders, and rode slowly up the straight entrance road.

Glancing to left or right as he went reluctantly on his way, he saw pleasant vistas and noble allées of an imposing park with here and there a glimpse of the smooth outlines of a classic temple or the silver jets of a stately fountain.

"All very well," he repeated. "All very fine, if it were honestly come by—"

Herds of curious striped and spotted deer wandered in the distant azure glades, and exotic, long-tailed birds flew among the foliage, adding to the fantastic air of the prospect; a keeper in a besilvered livery was in charge of these odd ornaments, which were so delicate and seldom lived long in Europe. The messenger, with a more decided sneer, reflected on the expense of menageries, which should be, of course, luxuries reserved for monarchs.

When he reached the terraces and the winged staircases, he was dazzled by the brightness of the sun reflected from so much white stone. The gleam of the great pompous façade made him blink, the tall and massive statues of heroes and gods in their curled draperies seemed scornful of his mere humanity.

Despite himself he was impressed.

He was also hot and tired, and his horse drooped as soon as the rein was slackened; he whistled and two tall grooms came from one of the long low wings that housed the stables.

The messenger dismounted and asked, drily, for the master of the Château.

He added that he was expected.

One of the grooms directed him to the great door at the top of the terraces, where he would find some one to attend to his business, and led away his horse. The messenger pursed up his face as one who has expected more honour than he finds, and unwillingly mounted the unshaded steps, so grand and shallow between the flourishing stone figures with wreaths, crowns and trophies; when he reached the top he was hot and breathless, for he was oldish and of a stout habit.

Two footmen in glittering liveries were behind the glass doors; their colours, like those of the keepers and the grooms, were blackish green and silver, like a parody of the colours of the House of Austria, and their badge, three collared goats' heads: these footmen admitted the messenger at once, and took his dusty cloak and his stiff hat.

"I am expected?"

"Yes, Monseigneur. Colonel Pons waits for you."

"I do not want to see Colonel Pons, I want to see your master."

"That is impossible, Monseigneur."

"He is not here?"

"You cannot see him, Monseigneur."

Frowning with vexation, the messenger produced a letter from his pocket; it was garnished with dangling seals of black wax that bore imposing eagles.

"Here are my credentials—I wish to hand them to your master."

"Monseigneur, we have our orders. Colonel Pons waits for you."

The messenger had been warned of such a possible reception; there was nothing possible but patience and diplomacy.

To gain an entrance to the Château was some advantage; to satisfy the necessities of his fatigue and hunger would be another gain.

"Very well," he replied haughtily, "I will see Colonel Pons."

The servants at once preceded him down a lofty marble corridor full of light from the many windows opening on the terrace, to a noble salon that gave on to the side of the Château. This room was high and grand, gilded and decorated with rich voluptuous pictures and elegant pieces of furniture; the tall window displayed an enchanting prospect of park and fountains; on the tulipwood table by this window a choice collation was spread.

Despite the messenger's ill humour he was cheered by this sight; shown into an anteroom to refresh his appearance and attire he marked the silver ewer, the fine damask towel, the crystal flasks of Hungary and orange water; he murmured "ill gotten gains" and was sure that all this display was to impress him with the wealth and elegance of the Château of Ottenheim and the master of the Château of Ottenheim.

When he returned to the salon, Colonel Pons was awaiting him and saluted him in a cordial and respectful manner.

"I am sorry," said this gentleman, "to fob you off with myself—but I act as secretary here and I shall be able to conduct your affair."

The messenger looked as sarcastic as he dare; he did not wish to give things an ill turn by carrying matters with too high a hand, nor yet to creep too low; he produced again the letter with the lustrous, black, dangling seals adorned by scowling eagles.

Colonel Pons bowed.

"You are Count Michael Hensdorff, no doubt?" he remarked, and the messenger said he was indeed that personage.

They sat down to table, covering by commonplaces a keen scrutiny of each other.

Colonel Pons had a very amusing appearance; he was a trim, dapper little man of about fifty with a stiff military air; his prominent eyes were a violent blue in a full crimson face, his mouth was crescent shaped, his features good; all his clothes seemed a little tight, his wig was well curled and powdered in the front; he had a fine hand. Though his temperament was obviously plethoric, he did not lack good nature and breeding.

Count Hensdorff was about the same age but heavier and taller; his complexion was a yellowish red and his eyes blue, but these were sunk in his head and faded; his nose was large and pendulous, his mouth harsh. He was rather carelessly dressed, but he had a manner of authority and was clearly a nobleman. He despised Colonel Pons as soon as he saw him, but went warily nevertheless; he was an old campaigner and an old intriguer; there was nothing of worldly affairs that he did not know and he had found most of his knowledge sour to his taste.

Colonel Pons played the host with precise courtesy. This was easy, as food and service were excellent; Count Hensdorff calculated the cost of everything from trout and truffles to pineapple and peaches, and ate grossly, satisfying a brisk appetite.

When he looked out of the window before him, on those long stretches of sward, on the fountains falling into the lake, and the aerial distances, so silver azure, he was thinking of the cost of all that—of bringing the water up and rolling the grass—of planting so many trees and trellises.

When the cloth was drawn, Tokay was placed on the table and Colonel Pons filled the two greenish glasses; Count Hensdorff had been careful how he indulged in the light German wines, but he could not refuse the Imperial vintage.

Colonel Pons had drunk heartily, with the air of a man who can count on himself and his discretion, even after deep potations. He now rose and gave a toast, holding out his glass:

"General Crack."

Count Hensdorff was taken by surprise; the other added:

"General Crack—our host."

Count Hensdorff could not refuse to rise and pledge the name.

"Of course—General Crack." He drank and then laughed, "But—between you and me—"

They reseated themselves.

"Exactly," said Colonel Pons, whose vivid bulging eyes seemed now to blaze in his flushed face, "between you and me—" He finished his wine.

"This is all very splendid," smiled the messenger. "I am duly impressed."

"I thought you would be."

"But I know the real value of it—"

"Many million kronen," finished Colonel Pons. "Of course, you've seen nothing yet—"

"I didn't mean that, I mean the real value of all this display—it might go where it came from, you know—into other people's pockets."

"Ha!" said Colonel Pons, taking another glass of Tokay.

"I dare say you get a pretty good salary."

Colonel Pons did not think this worth a reply; he wiped his narrow purple lips with a very delicate handkerchief.

"And he treats you well, no doubt," added Hensdorff, taking out a curved pipe finished with a head of Caesar Augustus.

"As one soldier to another."

"But will it last?"

"What a ridiculous question," returned the Colonel blandly. "Will you, or I, or anything last? Flesh is grass, my dear Count."

"Don't put me off with quips, Colonel, for I've very little time to waste. I've to be back in Vienna on Friday, and a damned tedious journey it is, I can tell you; my lackey fell sick on the way and I had to come alone."

"With pious thoughts for company, eh?"

The Colonel had also his pipe, but it was a more elegant affair than that of his guest; pale wreaths of smoke began tentatively to ascend to the gilt ceiling; the two gentlemen relaxed comfortably into the rich satin chairs with the well-rounded backs and stout arms and big bow legs.

"With this thought—to see General Crack himself."

"You won't," Pons assured him. "You'll see no one but myself. You can stay as long as you like, but you won't see General Crack."

"You know from whom I come?"

"Of course—it's because of whom you come from that he won't see you."

"I've orders to see him—positive orders."

Colonel Pons grimaced.

"It's absolutely no use, my dear fellow!"

"He's here, I suppose, in this little paradise of his?"

"Yes."

"Well, can't you tell him—one soldier to another—"

"No, I can't. You've got to transact your business with me."

Hensdorff could not control a flare of temper; saw no great reason why he should control a flare of temper.

"I'm damned if I will."

"Just as you please," replied the Colonel with a slight deepening of the violet in his cheeks. "You know best what they'll say in Vienna when you tell them you wouldn't treat with me."

"They're not so desperate," declared Hensdorff sullenly.

"Oh, they aren't, aren't they?" snapped Colonel Pons. "Oh, aren't they indeed? No, I suppose not—with you sitting here, oh, of course not!"

Hensdorff writhed.

"Things look black," he admitted.

"I should think they do." Colonel Pons leaned forward in some excitement. "How many are in this, eh? All the old gang, one on top of another—England, France, Spain, Holland? We hear the news here, I can tell you. General Crack is well informed; that conference in Brussels is a farce—any minute it will break up—and the Allies are ready, while you aren't. Lorraine, Hungary and Prussia—all straining at the leash, eh?"

"I've no doubt that General Crack is well informed of all that," sneered Michael Hensdorff. "He'd keep his eye on his market—but if this pot boils over he'll get scalded, like the rest of us."

"What is your offer?" asked Pons. "We may as well come to that."

"I'm not prepared to make one. Don't fly too high. Who, after all, is General Crack?"

Pons was silent; he smoked, like a man at ease.

"You can't bluff me," added Hensdorff, who was bluffing himself by this display of assurance. "His position is precarious, his fortune unstable, and we all know how he got it—his father had a finger in every pocket in the Empire—Viceroy of Naples and Paymaster General!"

"Why rake up all this ancient history? What can it matter how he made his money?"

"Then—his reputation—you can't play fast and loose with every one forever—"

"If you're clever enough," declared Pons, "you can."

"Bah! If you follow your man so blindly he'll lead you into a ditch; you won't be able to scramble out of it—"

"And what about your man?" cried the Colonel with popping eyes. "Isn't he in the ditch already?"

"You mean the Emperor?"

"I suppose you call him the Emperor—"

"Yes, I do, and you'd better be careful; if I was to report this in Vienna—"

"Report it in Hell," cried the Colonel, inflamed. "What do we care about Vienna?"

"I shouldn't flourish too much," sneered Hensdorff. "You're not so secure—"

Colonel Pons interrupted by striking the table with his open hand.

"Words, words!" he cried. "You came here to make an offer for the services of General Crack—make it!"

Hensdorff was not thus to be domineered over; he retorted vigorously:

"I shall not. My offer is for the ears of General Crack alone."

"Is it as bad as that?" asked Pons softly.

Hensdorff, though cornered, continued to bluff: "Not at all. I merely follow my instructions. Your General Crack is not so invaluable—to any one—"

"You know," put in Colonel Pons quietly, "that his name is worth twenty-five thousand men—raised and put into the field to-morrow—that he has Pomerania and Kurland by crooking his finger—and that every Power in Europe is making an offer to him."

At this last cunningly devised bait Hensdorff was forced to jump, though he saw the hook.

"No one can offer what the Emperor can offer."

"When he is the Emperor—the Elector of Bavaria, your master, isn't—yet."

"Bah!" cried Hensdorff. "With France behind him? General Crack is too wise not to know which way to jump. He likes the winning side."

"He makes the winning side," corrected Pons. "I don't think he's very temptable just now; he's had all the fame and money he wants; he is very well here; he dislikes your master; he is as hard as this"—and Colonel Pons touched the white marble panel in the window place. "A few points against you, Hensdorff."

"If this had been an easy mission I wouldn't have been sent on it," replied the Imperial messenger. "General Crack is for the highest bidder, of course; one expects no more from a mercenary soldier—a man of no nationality, enriched by plunder and corruption—"

"Hold there," said Pons. "He thinks a great deal of his honour, he is very nice on all questions of punctilio—you must put these things delicately—"

"But not with you, my dear fellow. We can't waste time in talking of honour and honesty and that sort of nonsense. Will General Crack take service with the Emperor?"

"Not with your Emperor," replied the Colonel, and Hensdorff pulled his big under lip nervously. "No tricks with me, Count—just look round you. Plenty of money, eh? Plenty of everything that money can buy, eh?"

"Yes, yes," cried the other impatiently, "but—"

"But nothing. Your master is wobbling like a cork at sea, his pockets are empty and his head not much better. General Crack doesn't believe in him; in fine, he has nothing to offer."

Hensdorff pulled out the letter with the Imperial seal and flung it on the table.

"He has, he has, Colonel Pons, and here it is under his own seal—something higher than anything any one else could offer."

Pons was slightly impressed by this manifest earnestness; he felt, though he did not confess, a prick of faint curiosity.

"General Crack has The Golden Fleece," he remarked drily.

"So have a lot of rogues," said Hensdorff, bitterly. "This is more—"

"More?"

"May I not carry it to General Crack himself?"

"Impossible!"

Hensdorff accepted defeat on this point.

"Well, it's the hand of the Archduchess Maria Luisa."

"The devil it is!" grinned Pons. "Well, that's something!"

"The Emperor's sister—with the title of Archduke," added Hensdorff stiffly.

The Colonel laughed, recovering from his surprise.

"Eighteen and a blooming young woman," snapped Hensdorff, grimmer and grimmer.

"As plain as a Puritan's smock," commented Pons. "With two left feet by her walk—no use, Count, no use."

And he flicked at the Imperial letter.

"I'd like to hear General Crack's opinion on that point." Hensdorff was stubborn. "Carry it as you will, it's not an offer of every day—an Imperial Princess and an Imperial title."

"Imperial fiddle-dee-dee—why, her picture's been hawked through all the courts of Europe, touched up too. I'm well informed, you observe; the poor girl will never go down without a dowry, and that's what she'll never get. Clap her in a convent, Count, and save yourself trouble."

Hensdorff had expected all this, so contrived to keep his temper.

"My dear Colonel, you have of course learnt all this insolence from your master. I take no notice of it—there is the offer and you have till to-morrow to think it over."

He rose, with an air of finality, putting away the pipe that had long since got chilled.

"You're welcome to wait till to-morrow," replied Pons unmoved, "but it's no use spreading birdlime for General Crack—he was in the trenches at twelve—"

"And frightening nurses with cannon from his cradle," sneered Hensdorff.

"Exactly. He knows his way through any intrigue and any battle. He won't have your Archduchess."

"Ask him," said Hensdorff laconically.

"Certainly." Pons gave his gurgling laugh; his staring blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "But I'll tell you this—" He rose also, straightening his tight waistcoat, "General Crack has his eye on another lady—you're too late—"

"He may have his eye on a dozen," replied Hensdorff coldly. "My offer stands."

"But he intends matrimony," said Pons, enjoying the grossness of the other's surprise, "for the lady is one whom he will get no other way—"

"He has at last set his mind on marriage?"

"Yes, at last, I'd never have thought it, but there we are—"

"Who is it?" asked Hensdorff sharply, suspecting something unpleasant.

"Anhalt-Dessau's daughter—Eleanora."

This was worse than Hensdorff had anticipated. He cried out furiously, exclaiming:

"But she is destined for the Emperor himself!"

"Precisely," grinned Colonel Pons, "but General Crack is more likely to get her."

This was really a swinging blow for the Imperial messenger; he did not know whether to treat the statements of Colonel Pons as mere impertinence or to give them serious attention. He bowed stiffly and said he would take a turn in the park, the sun being declined from the heavens and the shade pleasant.

And he placed, with a gesture not without hauteur, a miniature case on the table next the letter, saying that it contained a likeness of the Archduchess Maria Luisa.