Читать книгу No Way Home - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 12

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Bonino discovered that his master had a fever, an inflamed throat, a slight return of the quinsy that had afflicted him at Stuttgart.

Josef Gutke, the nervous young physician attached to the Badhaus, declared that Florio San Quirico, whom he knew as Signor Miola, was too ill to travel. The young Bolognese knew this to be the case, and resigned himself to a short sojourn at Rippoldsau. The enforced delay did not altogether displease him. His quarry was in the net that could be drawn close whenever he chose.

They must remain at Wilhelmsruhe for some time or attract attention. They would live, for some while, in dread of the return of Mr. Campion, for they could not know that he had never had any suspicions of them now that he was across the frontier. To support the fantastic tale they had told, they must remain in the Forest, playing the difficult parts they had assigned themselves.

"He is a clever scoundrel," thought Florio San Quirico, who himself enjoyed bizarre intentions, "and has succeeded in deceiving others sharper than the Englishman. But it will go ill with his nature to play the hermit."

Bonino travelled the scattered farms in the Forest and brought back gossip for his master. Casimir Weissnix, landlord of the Badhaus, also had a tale to tell. In this deep secluded valley, in the loneliest part of the Forest, it had been matter for much comment among the few inhabitants that Wilhelmsruhe had been let. This small hunting box was on the property of the Grand Duke of Baden and had been bought by Herr Weissnix with the larger lodge he now used as the Badhaus. It was he, therefore, who had let Wilhelmsruhe to Madame Daun by means of an attorney in Dinkelsbuhl.

The long deserted place had been in need of repair and Martin, Madame Daun's confidential steward, had interviewed Herr Weissnix who had visited Willemsruhe for this purpose.

His last guest had now departed, and he kept his establishment open merely to please the Bolognese, who paid lavishly. He, too, had his story to add to the fables that people the Forest. Not denying his native town, he related that he had been sent by the University of Bologna to Germany and Austria to search for rare coins for their cabinet of curiosities owned by that venerable seat of learning. He was crossing the Forest in order to visit a schloss whose owner had promised him the first choice of some coins of the Wurtemberg minted, of Ulm and a few of the Palatinate at Tubingen, some of these rarities being nearly a thousand years old.

Herr Weissnix accepted this story without quibble; he was pleased with the visit of the young nobleman (so he thought of Signor Miola) to his not very successful establishment and willing, when the first exasperations and languors of his guest's illness had passed, to talk to him about the new tenants of Wilhelmsruhe. He was himself a native of Stuttgart, and his enterprise in purchasing this, the most isolated and neglected of the Brunnen of South Germany, had meant exile to him. He was a widower with a boy, his sole hope, at the University of Wurtemberg, for whom he had made, with his savings and a lottery prize, this speculation. He had been employed for most of his life at the Marstall in Stuttgart, and in the breeding of the pure Arabian horses that were celebrated throughout Europe. A riding accident had lamed him and decided him, with his luck at the lottery, on the purchase of Bad Rippoldsau.

This modest and truthful tale amused Florio San Quirico, as it was in such keen contrast to the fanciful fictions with which he was surrounded, and with the dark, beautiful and melancholy scenery of the vale of the Schappach, inhabited by a few peasants and farmers living in fantastic rustic dwellings, and wearing costumes that to the taste of the Bolognese were grotesque.

Herr Weissnix, however, was not averse from the romantic aspect of life though this had never come his own way. He had been greatly excited by the hiring of Wilhelmsruhe and was delighted to recount this adventure to Signor Miola.

The Bolognese sat in the hot sunshine, in a cushioned chair, outside the plain façade of the Badhaus, his throat still bandaged, his face pallid, his attitude languid, and listened with an interest he was well able to conceal, to the landlord's gossip. At his guest's invitation, Herr Weissnix had a tankard of clear Bavarian beer before him that he drank as he detailed his narrative.

"The story was all over Dinkelsbuhl—just over the Bavarian frontier, you know, sir—and whispered only, that this Madame Daun is a French princess in hiding; the people in the Forest think the same."

"What have they to go upon, in crediting the incredible?" asked Florio San Quirico, who very well knew the answer. He still spoke with difficulty, in a hoarse voice, and Herr Weissnix glanced at him kindly and continued, hoping to dispel the other's boredom.

"Ah, there is so much to spread the story. The lady, who gives the name of Madame Daun, has confided in her maid, an Austrian, one Adriana Beheim, and a sober, strait-laced woman—"

"And she has confided it to everyone with whom she speaks?"

"No, she is discreet. But such a situation cannot be long concealed," replied Herr Weissnix, with a knowing look. "Imagine, a princess! And after such a life of torment!"

"She must have had some excellent friends to connive at this elaborate deception."

"Undoubtedly," agreed the Badhaus keeper, ingenuously. "One does not know all the tale. She was in exile, in a Swiss convent, one understands she was sunk in melancholy, somewhat unsettled in her wits; when she heard of her proposed marriage to her cousin, a disagreeable man, son of her mother's mortal enemy, she fled."

"With whom, and by what means?"

"O, one does not know everything, of course. She might have had English help—certainly the Duchess of Wurtemberg is English, and this lady has the Duke's letter of protection."

"We reach high politics," smiled the Bolognese. "I find this a fable well suited, my dear Herr Wiessnix, to your superb Forest."

"No, no," returned the other quickly, though with deference. "This has nothing to do with tales of lorelei, elves and goblins, robber barons or exile kings, but with real people. Incredible? I do not know about that, seeing what has happened in the last few years, since '89—what one has seen in one's own life time."

"However, I do not believe that the daughter of the late King of France is in hiding at Wilhelmsruhe."

"The resemblance is unmistakable," replied Herr Weissnix. "I spoke apart with the chamber woman—she was only engaged in Vienna, but she is convinced of the truth of the claim. She told me she had seen a signature in a prayer book, a sketch of the late Queen of France, fleur-de-lys on a chemise, a book marker with the same emblem."

"If the lady is this princess, who, then, is Martin? This confidential servant? And is one to suppose that she travelled alone with this servant, from Switzerland?"

"We are not far from the frontier."

"You think, then, they came direct to Dinkelsbuhl?"

"That would not be the direct route, sir; no doubt they turned and twisted on their way, but I think that a few weeks ago they were in Switzerland."

"I see," smiled the Bolognese. "It is certainly a pretty mystery. They have money?"

"Anything is paid for lavishly."

"And how is it that this illustrious female is not missed?"

"She is—but to escape scandal, the whole affair is kept quiet, and her family try to induce her to return by secret means, or even to have her abducted, while a friend takes her place in the seclusion of the convent."

"Have they not been followed?"

"Yes, I believe so. A man came to the Drei Mohren, where they were staying, but the host described them falsely, and he left within a few hours. It may be he is at Stuttgart watching them—they live so very secluded."

"Have you seen this lady?"

"No—she is never present when I visit Wilhelmsruhe, and that is seldom."

"But you remarked on the likeness?"

"I have the word of the maid for that." Herr Weissnix was confident of the truth of his gossip. When pressed by Florio for details of this remarkable story he glossed over all difficulties by asserting that certainly there were mysteries, certainly there was much left unexplained, but one was dealing with a piteous feminine caprice, with the actions of a very young woman whose wits had been disturbed, perhaps fatally, by suffering, who had loyal friends eager to respect and shelter her desire for a retreat from the world, a loss of identity and an unknown death.

The landlord of the Badhaus capped his argument by declaring that the Duke of Bavaria and the Duke of Wurtemberg were cognisant of the lady's secret and were helping her to protect it; obviously, everything had been made easy for her eccentric retirement.

"Do you think that she appealed to these two courts?"

"I do not suppose her capable of any such effort, sir. Martin would do everything."

"Ah, this Martin! Who is he?"

Herr Weissnix did not know. He liked to think that the steward, courier or servant was some great personage, perhaps some royal prince in disguise. "He wears a mask."

Florio knew this but affected surprise.

"It is common enough since the war—wounds or disease have disfigured him, sir. It is no vizard he wears, but a false face of silk taffeta, lined, he told me, with ointment. He takes it off at night."

"What age would you take him to be?" asked Florio.

"Forty years or so, maybe older. I suppose the lady would be no more than twenty years."

"So," mused the Bolognese, "legends grow into monstrous blooms from tiny seeds. Perhaps in a hundred years time this tale will be repeated—of the mysterious French princess fleeing here to die in solitude, attended by her faithful servant."

Indeed, so strong was the atmosphere of the Forest that Florio himself, solitary, weakened by illness, cut off from all the normal influences of life, was tempted to toy with belief in this fiction that had a melancholy charm, not in keeping with the character of the inventor.

The Forest was so large; the castles on the height that rose above it, the farms and cottages in the valleys that divided it, so remote from one another; the lordly hunting boxes so secluded, stretches of the woodland so dense and dark, that even the sceptical intelligence of the highly educated Bolognese was in abeyance, and the romantic side of his nature, which he delighted, now and then, to arouse, was indulged.

He had often read with satiric amusement, the horrible German novels of spectres and warlocks, so fashionable in a society that ignored the commonplace terrors of every day, but here they seemed neither diverting nor impossible.

Herr Weissnix, drawn out on the subject, did not disguise his belief in the reputation of the Forest, so ancient, so little touched by man, so gloomy in the pathless depths of the trees where a traveller could be lost for days, so full of radiance in the open valleys. Almost Florio began to credit the incredible story of the fugitives at Wilhelmsruhe, almost to suppose that he was mistaken as to their identity.

When Herr Weissnix ceased talking, a hush that seemed more than silence was over this solitary place. The sunshine lay undisturbed on the space of grass before the tall grey house, on the quiet mansion itself, so changed from its purpose and emptied of its splendour, in the tops of the elms and pines of the encroaching Forest that rose against a blue-gold sky, where dense white clouds were driven slowly across the valley by an upper wind.

Florio felt half stifled, even feverish; he turned his gaze from the trees on his right hand, to the opening spread of the valley before him, shut in by the steep peaks of the Kniebis, a hollow filled by a burning light, through which showed the radiant shapes of distant foliage shining in the sun. This landscape, unfamiliar, yet of a character common to dreams, seemed to Florio to convey to him more vividly than any words could, his own mood. The very brilliancy of that opening vista emphasized the pause he had come to in his own life and his sense of severance from his former splendid and carefree existence.

There stole over him, seated there in the sunshine, the quietude of the lonely night watch, the desolation of the sleepless night. The masks that had haunted him in his fevered dreams at Stuttgart, the hallucinations arising from half memories of childhood's toys and puppets, faintly troubled him now. As he closed his hot lids, he saw the heavy, passionate visage of Mr. Campion, the fine features of Letty, a turquoise ribbon through her red hair, the clumsy plaster mask of the servant Martin, and his own face, a dim reflection in a blotched mirror. He was startled, almost stupefied by the sight of himself in his thick day-dream and roused as Herr Weissnix exclaimed: "Sir, you are ill! I shall summon your servant!"

"No," replied Florio, quickly. "I have been idle too long—this quinsy has weakened me, but I desire no aid. Who," he added with a thrill of unpleasant conjecture, "is that approaching along the Forest path?"

The landlord of the Badhaus, who had already risen, looked at the horseman coming towards them and recognized the plaster white face beneath the wide-brimmed hat.

Florio, who had, from his quick agitation, regained his regal self possession, rose and turned towards the house.

"Do not mention my presence here, I beg you. I am not well enough to be disturbed by anyone's misfortunes."

"Certainly, sir, I shall not divulge I have a guest—the establishment is supposed to be closed for the season."

Florio gained his room before the horseman had reined up at the door, and stood at the tall window, concealed by the long curtain, gazing down on the messenger from Wilhelmsruhe as he had gazed down on Mr. Campion in the Schlossstrasse hastily making preparations to depart for Schaffhausen. His sense of oppression had lifted, he forgot his weakness and the menace there had seemed to be in the dark woods and the shining valley. His feeling of power returned. It was one of his puppets below, leaning from his horse, speaking to Herr Weissnix, his body in the trim livery, light against the sombre wood, the taffeta silk plaster hiding his face. Yet that blank mask, with slit for mouth and holes for eyes, had an expression, it seemed to the careful watcher, one of both fury and misery.

After brief speech with the landlord of the Badhaus, the rider turned and took his way slowly along the narrow bridle path that penetrated the Forest. Not disguising his curiosity that passed, he hoped, as the whim of a sick man enduring a tedious interlude, Florio descended the stairs and spoke to Herr Weissnix in the passage.

"So that is this strange lackey who behaves like a knight errant—a noble figure, I should have thought his age less than forty years."

"O, he is that, at least. He remembers the lady in her infancy. She is ill, and he entreated me to send Dr. Gutke to attend her."

"Sick of a melancholy—it would be charity to rescue her from this unnatural life and restore her to her family, or, if she has none, at least to society."

"Did she not come here to die?" asked the landlord of the Badhaus, simply.

"Young ladies have made such sentimental resolves before now, and outgrown them. Are you sending the physician?"

"To-day, sir. This afternoon he was to have returned to Stuttgart, you no longer requiring his attention, but first he will undertake this duty."

Florio watched the awkward young doctor of medicine depart on his quiet nag through the Forest, for Wilhelmsruhe, and felt a return of mounting excitement in the game he played with these other people, a game that involved their lives.

Mr. Campion had spoken of her illness, probably not believing in it himself, now there was this further deception. She was unlikely to be ill—at Bologna she had bloomed with strength and grace—why this pretence, this bringing in of the shy young physician, poor and timid, earning his first fees in this post at the most neglected of the Brunnen?

Over Florio's musing face came the shadow of a disturbing doubt. If this report were true and not some ruse?

Possibly she might be suffering, as he was, from some trifling malaise brought on by the heavy fermented sweetness of the grape harvest.' Yet she might be assailed, as others as young and strong had been, by a deadly ill.

This doubt shook him and he felt, what he had always warned to himself, the foolish, shrinking dread mortals have of death.

If she should die? What then?

Did those two questions form the touchstone of what was the quality of his feeling for her?

Florio could not answer them. He put them aside, assuring himself that this pretended illness was a trick, for what end he could not discover.