Читать книгу No Way Home - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

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Herr Kugler went slowly upstairs and knocked on the door of Madame Daun's apartment. The elderly maid opened it and he asked if he might see the lady.

"You know—" the woman began a formal, a reproachful sentence, but the host silenced her by raising a heavy hand. "This is important and unexpected."

"About the police, the visas, the passports?" came the sharp query.

"Official business, yes."

The woman admitted him. The room was altered since he had let this suite, some weeks before, to Madame Daun. Shawls of pale yellow and white silk were draped over the chairs; a chased silver coffee service was set on a side table, some fine Persian mats were laid on the shining floor, a Venetian mirror surrounded by glass flowers scattered with gold flecks had been hung on the white wall. Majolica bowls of early flowers, pinks, roses, hyacinths, were set by the long horse hair couch of classic shape that Madame Daun had softened by cushions of blue, purple and pink embroideries.

She came from the inner door as the host entered, and seated herself on this couch. She wore a pale grey pelisse, and her head was swathed in white muslin, too thick for a veil and through which she could scarcely see.

"What did you say, what is it?" she asked in English. In that tongue the man replied, after the maid had withdrawn to the inner room.

"The most unexpected, the most vexatious incident," murmured the host, looking awkwardly on the ground, as if overwhelmed, not only by the lady's presence, but by the air of elegance she had given his severe room. "A traveller has arrived."

She interrupted nervously: "Is not that usual? There have been several travellers staying here since I came."

"But this gentleman, I regret he has made inquiries about you, Madame."

"Surely you misunderstood!" She sat upright, alert and speaking keenly.

"I express myself with difficulty. Directly, not about your ladyship, no, Madame, but he inquired if there was a lady staying here. He is searching for someone."

"He is French?"

"English—but it is understood that all manner of spies might be employed?"

"You know that I am French, though I speak English with you since you understand that better than my own language," murmured Madame Daun. "Yet, an English spy—it is possible. What did he ask?"

"The colour of your hair, Madame."

She was silent and put up a trembling hand to draw the muslin closer round her head.

"I replied, 'light brown, with a greyness on the temples,' pardon me, that was to give the impression of a middle-aged lady, instead of one so young. For the rest, I told the tale as you bade me."

"Thank you. I do not think that this stranger can concern me, but I shall remain close until he leaves. When is that?"

"To-morrow morning, early."

"Why then, it was hardly needful to tell me this!"

Herr Kugler hesitated painfully.

"My poor house—hardly suitable—the wiser action would be to ask our Duke for advice—I hardly expected the honour for so long."

"The Duke of Bavaria, as I told you, knows my circumstances—he considered that my privacy was assured here, while I negotiated the purchase of a secluded residence."

"I have been honoured by your confidence."

"The Duke will not forget your kindness," said the lady, softly. "As for the stranger, you are over anxious, for which I commend you. In a few hours he will have departed."

The words were spoken in a tone of gentle dismissal, yet the host stood his ground, though awkwardly.

"Perhaps you are tired of my presence?" she added, loosening the muslin from her face.

"It is a responsibility, Madame," he admitted reluctantly.

"I trusted you," she reminded him. "I await important letters. You alone know my secret. Even my chamber woman, Adriana, does not guess as much as I have told you. Soon I shall dismiss her and engage another stranger. You realize the life I lead, so lonely, so perilous." She untwisted the muslin from her head. He shifted his position uneasily, but he was obliged, by the fascination she had for him, to look at the face she had revealed. This was a countenance of dignity and delicacy, with an exquisitely arched nose, a full under lip and pale eyes under sweeping brows. Her loosely curled hair was hazel coloured and whitened by powder on the temples. Herr Kugler knew that he could not resist that sparkling, prominent glance. He murmured: "Your ladyship must stay as long as you desire."

"I shall not be here for many days more." She offered him her entrancing smile where pride was mingled with gratitude. "My valet de place, Martin, has paid you all I owe?"

"Most scrupulously, Madame." Overcoming his nervousness by an effort of will, Herr Kugler added: "This Herr Martin, he is other than he seems?"

"He is my faithful servant."

"I understand—but his quality? If I might be trusted even further?"

"Martin is no more than my faithful servant. His devotion, as you must have observed, makes my existence possible. He, and his family, have always been in the service of my family."

The lady's tone was cold. Herr Kugler bowed and withdrew. He was not satisfied. As he descended the stairs slowly, with heavy head, he regretted the bias, the romantic temperament, the love of flattery, the awe of the reigning Duke, that had led him into the present situation. He did not doubt at least the main part of the sweet lady's tale; there had been the letter from His Highness, the prayer book with the illustrious signature, the marker, the pencil sketch; a hundred little incidents, all confirming the high flown, the impossible story. Above all there had been the lady's face. He had recognized the likeness at once. Yet some of the details of her case were vexatious. Martin, though he slept over the stables, seemed no ordinary servant and was very much in the confidence of his mistress, even to the handling of her money affairs. Certainly he was most respectful, most discreet, never over-stepping his place, but Herr Kugler, son of an innkeeper and himself in that business all his life, thought that he knew human beings pretty well, and he was dubious about Martin. Yet he could not offer himself any theory that might explain the servant.

As for the lady, if she was not who she hinted she was, who was she? Herr Kugler's instinct refused to connect her with anything discreditable; besides, she was gaining nothing by her life of a recluse at the Drei Mohren, and every week Martin paid her expenses, without questioning the accounts, in golden carolin. It had occurred to the innkeeper that the lady might be afflicted by a derangement in her wits, but against that was her command of money, her sober behaviour, and the facts that the letter from the Duke had demanded special service and protection for her, and that there had been no hue and cry after her, unless indeed, the Englishman?

But no, that was clearly a coincidence. There were so many missing people, of all nationalities, in Europe now, and so many, doubtless, searching for them. And the Englishman, this Mr. Campion, had obviously not been pursuing a woman with light brown hair, even though the landlord had misled him about the lady's age, there he had not been deceived. "Yet I shall be relieved," reflected Herr Kugler, "when all of them have left Dinkelsbuhl."

A widower, he had no anxious woman in whom to confide his doubts and he regretted his faithful Louise. The servants had all accepted the "Madame Daun" story, but he believed he had caught them whispering and staring—furtively, of course—and he did not want them to suspect anything.