Читать книгу No Way Home - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

Table of Contents

Martin entered the hotel quietly and softly went upstairs to Madame Daun's apartment. He was a tall, well-made man whose face was covered by a taffeta mask. Herr Kugler and his staff had at first found this disguise unpleasant, but they had accepted the explanation that Martin was so frightfully disfigured by smallpox as to be intolerable to the eyes of his fastidious mistress. Though the romantic innkeeper had sometimes wondered if the silken plaster (as it seemed to be) did not conceal some famous countenance, yet he knew this speculation to be fantastic, and after some weeks in Dinkelsbuhl Martin's misfortune had been accepted. The eyes that looked through the holes were clear but it was impossible to trace the outline of the features beneath the rude modelling of the mask. Martin wore a plain brown livery, with a narrow black braid at the seams. His linen was expensive and he had silver buckles on his well-made shoes. His hair was black and hung lankly on to his broad shoulders.

Madame Daun herself answered his careful knock.

"How late you are!" she whispered nervously.

"I could not venture it before."

He entered the room cautiously. The curtains were drawn and also the candles extinguished save those four wax lights in a girandole on the marble and gilt console beneath the Venetian mirror. In this faint light Martin's mask seemed to be made of dirty plaster. His voice was slightly distorted by the rigid slit that served as mouthpiece.

"Tell me at once," she whispered, pulling her yellow silk shawl about her as she shivered on to the sofa. Her face was free of the muslin, and the extreme delicacy of her features was startling to the man who looked at her so shrewdly.

"You are ill." His voice was sunk but powerful, even in a whisper. "That would be the last misfortune—if you were to be ill."

"I shall not be ill."

"The woman—?" he interrupted, glancing at the inner door.

"You know she does not understand English. The Madame Daun story quiets her, with just a hint of the other. But she should not find you here so late."

"It is he," said Martin.

"O! Here—in this house!"

"Yes. I brushed against him, just now, under the linden trees. I was waiting for him to return. I saw him, clear enough, in the light of the public lamp. I had my hat pulled down. I moved away, then waited outside the window of the common parlour. He was talking to Kugler. Complaining of a lackey's insolence, I believe."

"Then he has no suspicion?" The lady spoke in extreme terror, and leaned forward on her knees as if without strength.

"None. I heard the talk among the servants. He has taken no trouble not to appear odd. He admitted he was searching for someone. Kugler was uneasy. He is a coward as well as a fool."

"Here! In this house! Sleeping beneath the same roof!"

"Not sleeping, I think. He looks desperate—yet strong, too."

"What can we do?"

"Nothing. I repeat, he has no doubts. Remember he is looking for both of us. You are travelling alone. He is not subtle enough to suspect a lackey. A very literal minded man. And he leaves early to-morrow morning."

"I do not feel as I could endure this night—indeed I do not. I shall declare I have a fever and make Adriana sit up with me."

"No. The woman probably knows too much already. You will do nothing unusual."

"You are right, as always. I shall be quiet, but how slowly the hours will pass!" She clasped her hands in an excess of fear, and her body trembled under the thin gown and shawl.

"Tell this woman the other story, or hint at it—show the ducal letter. You are quite a good actress, yet you cannot control yourself."

"My terror is too acute," she murmured. "To know that he is here!"

"It has taken him two years to find us, and now he does not know that he has done so." Martin, as if expecting to be surprised, had maintained a careful distance from the lady and stood, respectfully, well away from the sofa where she crouched.

"I wish I knew what clues he had. How he came here at all."

"May we never be as near again!"

"He must have leave of absence. Some special concession. But it would not be more than six months. He will have, soon, to return home."

The lady muffled the fine texture of the shawl into her face, as if to check cries or sobs.

Martin, alarmed at this emotion, left her, saying sternly: "I trust to your wits. We cannot stay here much longer. I shall tell you our plans to-morrow."

As soon as he had left the room, Madame Daun struck a bell on the console table. Adriana Beheim entered at once. Certain that she had been eavesdropping, the lady said that the devoted Martin had just warned her of danger.

"I may have been recognized and followed. This good fellow saw—someone—in Dinkelsbuhl—" her voice fell to silence.

They spoke in French, Adriana's tongue lagged in that speech. She strained her attention to understand what her mistress said. She appeared eager, yet troubled.

"If you would confide in me," she whispered. "Please, Madame, have faith in me."

"It is impossible. Know me only as Madame Daun. And above all be prudent."

"Never have I failed in the utmost discretion!"

"Yet recall that I engaged you merely from an agency in Vienna."

"But first, Madame, you asked if I was loyal to...to..."

"Do not mention the name!"

"But I must think of it—and of her—every time I see your face, Madame," replied the servant in great agitation. "Yet there is so much I do not understand."

"I intend," said the lady slowly, "to spend the rest of my life in seclusion. I shall take a remote mansion in some remote part of the Duchy or in Wurtemberg—the Duke protects me. I shall hire servants. Money I have in plenty. Martin will conduct my affairs for me. And so, withdrawn from the world, I shall hope not to live long."

"I did not engage for an existence like that," murmured the maid, half in caution, half in fear. "And, Madame, it has, this proposal, a tinge of madness."

"Many will say that I am mad. Perhaps I lost my wits when I was a prisoner. When—all my family—was—murdered."

Adriana crossed herself.

"Do not speak of it, pray, Madame."

"But I think of it, always. Consider my offer. You will be well paid. And I shall not live long."

Adriana inclined her head silently. She was getting old and her life had been without incident. She had no relations and no interests. She found this strange lady, who had partly confided in her so wild and improbable a tale, fascinating. Moreover, her mistress gave little trouble and paid well. It was easier to continue in this service than to seek another place. Yet she remained suspicious, reluctant to involve herself in possible mischief. Nor did the prospect of this lonely house, this sacrificed life, please her mind, romantic and curious, yet shrewd and superstitious.

"See me to bed now," said the lady with a sigh; she rose and the maid followed her into the bedroom. On the bed, covered with a silken shawl, was a fine chemise, embroidered on the sleeve with the letters "M.A." On the table by the bed was a prayer book bound in blue velvet powdered with fleur-de-lys. Madame Daun opened it and glanced at the pencil sketch, on the title page, of a woman whose uncommon face showed a definite likeness to her own fair countenance, and the flowing signature of a murdered Queen. Adriana glanced at it also, with awe and a little wonder.

"If you are devoted to the Imperial Family, Adriana, you could not choose but stay with me."

"Madame, I must consider—"

"Say no more, Adriana."

The lady went to her solitary repose, the maid to her modest closet. Herr Kugler put out the lamps and candles in the public rooms, after bolting the massive front door. Upstairs, Mr. Campion lay drowsed on his bed, in the dark, for the street lamp was out; the miniature, at which he had gazed so intensely, in his hand. In his room above the stable Martin took off his taffeta mask, with a mutter of relief, and lay down to sleep; he also was in the dark.