Читать книгу The Kingmakers - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 6

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AS the prince bowed, with much empressement, above the slim hand extended to him, Selden was conscious of a rapid but penetrating scrutiny on the part of the older man. It was as if an X-ray had been plunged into the innermost recesses of his being, photographed everything that was to be seen there, and been instantly withdrawn. He had never seen more remarkable eyes—which was perhaps why their owner ambushed one of them behind a glass; nor a more remarkable face, alert, high-nosed, finely coloured, with a mouth at once forceful and good-humoured, and an air that bespoke wide knowledge and deep experience.

“Enchanted to meet you, madame,” the prince was murmuring in the most approved fashion. “It is true that the baron has spoken often of you.”

“M. le Baron does me too much honour,” protested the countess.

“Impossible, madame,” countered the baron. “To prove to you how much in earnest I am, I have come all the way from Nice expressly to pay you my respects, having learned only this morning, quite by accident, that you were here. Why did you not inform me?”

“Ah,” murmured the countess, “I know how busy you always are!”

“So it remained for me to learn it I know not how—a voice on the Promenade des Anglais, a bit of gossip at the casino, a line in the Petit Niçois,—‘The Countess Rémond is at the Hotel de Paris.’ At least, I lost no time. I had my man confirm it over the telephone; unhappily you were out, so I could make no engagement. But I came just the same, and brought the prince with me, hoping to be so fortunate as to find you free for the evening.”

“What is it you propose?” asked the countess, who had listened to all this laughingly, yet with a certain curious intentness, as though seeking to find in it somewhere a code, a key, a hidden meaning.

“I was going to propose the opera—‘Tosca’—you have, of course, heard it many times; but there is a new tenor, an American. Afterwards the club, Ciro’s—what you wish. But if you are engaged,” and his eyes rested fleetingly upon Selden.

“This is M. Selden,” said the countess; “an old friend of mine in America, whom I found sitting here a moment ago, quite by accident. M. Selden, this is Prince Danilo of Goritza, and the Baron Lappo, counsellor of kings, and also an old friend of mine.”

“Counsellor of one king, only, monsieur,” corrected the baron; “I find it enough.”

“You have heard of M. Selden,” added the countess; “you, at least, baron, who read everything. It was he who wrote those articles in the London Times about our new republic. They must have annoyed you deeply!”

“Ah, they did!” agreed the baron, smiling. “I liked the ones on Austria much better—you must permit me, monsieur, to congratulate you on a splendid piece of work. There we see eye to eye. And let me add that I am happy indeed to meet you. You will perhaps give me an opportunity to expose my point of view.”

“It is exactly what I hoped, M. le Baron,” said Selden. “I was saying to madame but a moment since that I must try to see the king.”

“Yes, that can be arranged. He will welcome the opportunity. I will let you know.” The baron paused a moment and looked him over with a quizzical smile. “You are a great republican, hein?” he asked. “I also, in theory, though perhaps you will not believe it. It is true—but not for my country; no, there I am a monarchist. I do not believe our people are ready for a republic. In another generation, perhaps, but not now. They require education—but we will talk of all that some other time. Perhaps you would care to hear ‘La Tosca’ once again? I have a box—I should be most happy.”

“Thank you,” said Selden; “but I have some work to do. Even at Monte Carlo I try to do a little.”

“Ah, you Americans!” murmured the baron. “It is no wonder you own the world! I will speak to the king to-morrow. You shall hear from me. You are staying at this hotel?”

“Yes, M. le Baron. And thank you.”

“Au revoir,” said the countess, and held out her hand. “I am so glad to have seen you again, and I shall not forget our engagement for to-morrow. At twelve, shall we say?”

Selden was quick to bow assent.

“At twelve,” he agreed.

“Till to-morrow, then,” said the countess, and moved away, the plump but altogether distinguished baron on one side and the tall, rather commonplace prince on the other.

A strange trio, Selden told himself, as he stood for a moment looking after them—at the graceful lines of the woman’s figure; at the baron’s head, with its grey hair parted down the back after the ancient manner; at the prince’s negligent walk and careless air—a little too careless, perhaps, to be quite genuine. And yet perhaps not, for the face was careless too, with its dark skin and shining eyes and sensuous mouth; not a bad face, but rather a weak one, as of a man who no longer found any cause worth fighting for.

They had paused a moment to get some wraps from the vestiaire, and the countess looked back at him and smiled. Then they passed through the door together, and Selden, shaking himself out of his thoughts, betook himself to his room. There he changed into an old dressing-gown and disreputable slippers, got his pipe to going, sat down at his desk and plunged resolutely into the article he was finishing for the Times. Long practice had perfected his ability to switch his mind at will from one subject to another, and for the hour that followed he was not at Monte Carlo but at Neustadt in central Austria, witnessing the loading of a long Red Cross train with half-starved children to be taken away into Switzerland to be fed. It was the only way to save them—no one realized that better than their mothers—but there had been scenes.... For to many of the women these pale little wraiths were all that the war had left them.

He leaned back at last with a sigh of satisfaction; then got his manuscript together, looked it over, made a correction here and there, sealed it up, addressed it, summoned the porter and sent it off. That done, he filled his pipe again, stretched out on the chaise-longue and allowed his mind to wander back over the events of the evening.

A strange trio. Each remarkable—especially the baron. To talk with him would be worth while. His point of view was certain to be interesting—and might, after all, be the right one. As for the prince, he seemed to be little more than a puppet in the baron’s hands—he had certainly given the impression of being led around—led up to the countess to be introduced, led to the opera. Perhaps that was the price he paid for freedom in other directions—and crown princes were destined to be puppets, more or less! As for the countess, evidently a woman of the world, wise in its ways, refined in its furnace—but also a little hardened. Curious how, when the baron was speaking, she seemed always to be watching for her cue.

Perhaps it was really a drama that was preparing, with these three for the protagonists. And perhaps he too would have a part—a minor one, of course; but to be behind the scenes would be something. That was where he loved to be, behind the scenes, not involved in the action but free to watch the strings that worked the puppets and to try to trace them to their controlling source. It was great luck—too good to be true! He was letting his imagination run away with him. But how else explain the sudden interest of the Countess Rémond? To suppose that she had summoned him to a rendezvous merely to thank him—that was absurd! She would not waste her time like that. No; there was some other purpose, and the baron and the prince had arrived at a most inopportune moment, for she was just upon the verge of explanation. Or had she been expecting them all the while? Was that why her eyes had sought the door?

And this engagement for to-morrow which she had suddenly evolved? What did that mean?

Well, to-morrow would tell!

But he realized that he had need to be on guard. He recalled her strange face, her burning eyes, her vivid mouth. Who was she? What was she? A woman with a furnace inside her. No novice, certainly. But neither was he a novice! A fierce woman—how her face had hardened when she had mentioned that date—the sixth of June, 1918!

Selden’s hardened, too, for he was not likely ever to forget the happenings of that day—one happening in particular.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, in the old farm-house which had been the home of some quiet peasant family for a hundred years, but which was now the headquarters of General Harbord, commanding the Marine brigade of the Second Division, he had seen an order typed off which marked the beginning of the American offensive. It was an order that at five o’clock the Marines should advance against Belleau Wood and the village of Bouresches. The Marines had taken over their present positions from the French only a few hours before, and the Germans would count on their waiting to get settled before doing any attacking. Therefore there was every reason to expect the advantage of surprise. In any event, as General Harbord remarked, the way to act in an active sector was to be active.

Copies were made of the order and a minute later two dispatch bearers were pounding away toward the lines to convey them to the regimental commanders. Selden, tingling with excitement, resolved to watch the advance from the very best position discoverable, and for the next hour scouted up and down behind the lines. He found, at last, a place which seemed ideal, a tiny farm-house with red-tiled roof partially blown away, looking down from a little knoll upon both wood and village. He assured himself that the place was deserted and that there was a ladder by which he could reach the roof, then walked over to the little orchard and lay down in the shade to rest.

He must have dozed, for he was roused suddenly by a clatter of explosions. The beginning of the attack, he told himself, and then, as he started to rise, saw a motor-cycle wheel swiftly into the yard beside the house and stop. The rider, whom he recognized as one of the couriers from headquarters, sprang to the ground, and, after a quick look around, entered the house. He was out again in a moment, gathering up some bits of wood and dried grass, which he took back into the house. Then he drew a cupful of gasolene from the tank of his motor-cycle and hurried into the house again.

Selden, watching motionless, told himself bitterly that he would have to seek another vantage point—evidently this place was going to be used by the army. He would inquire—and he was just rising to his feet when he was astounded to see a thin column of smoke rising from the chimney. The day was windless and the smoke rose straight into the air. Then suddenly it stopped—started again—stopped—started again. Five distinct puffs floated upward toward the sky, then the smoke stopped for good, and a moment later the dispatch rider emerged, flung himself into the saddle and was off.

Selden lay staring after him, trying to understand. It had been a signal, of course, but to whom? To our men? But why use so clumsy a method, when there were telephones everywhere? To the Germans? The thought brought him bounding to his feet, and in another moment he was racing down the hill. But he lost his way in a strip of woods; he ran into a deep ravine, which delayed him; and then into a stretch of bog, around which he had to work his way, and even as he panted up the road toward headquarters, the earth burst asunder with the thunder of the artillery preparation.

General Harbord listened to the gasped-out story with a face of granite, and called his chief of staff.

“Have we time to stop the attack?” he asked.

“Impossible, sir,” said the chief. “There is just a minute and a half. We should only disorganize it.”

So they sat and waited—through a minute which seemed like an hour—and then the reports came pouring in—of the massed machine-gun fire which had greeted the attack at the very outset, of the rifles waiting in the woods; oh, yes, our men had gone on, but the casualties were very heavy, especially among the officers—yes, Colonel Catlin too. The Germans had seemed to know the very minute to expect them....

There was a brief trial, late that night, and a swift conviction. The accused had denied nothing, admitted nothing—merely shrugging his shoulders as he listened to Selden’s story and realized the game was up—asking only that he might write a letter to his wife; and at dawn a firing-squad had ended the affair.

Selden had, of course, not seen the letter, but it shocked him now to think that the woman to whom the man wrote that night was the lovely being who had summoned him to a rendezvous. He had made no inquiries—indeed, had sought to drop the whole sordid incident out of his consciousness. But now he began to wonder who the man really was. How had he managed to win this gorgeous woman? What had he said in the letter?

The censor, of course, would permit him to say little except good-bye; certainly he would not permit him to mention Selden’s name, or even to refer to him indirectly. Most probably the letter had never been sent at all—had been simply turned over to the intelligence department. But, in that case, how had she known? In any case, how had she known?

The thought brought him bolt upright. It would have been wiser to keep that strange trio under observation. He had been wrong to yield to the feeling that he was in the way. That the baron had come to Monte Carlo merely to pay his respects and introduce the prince Selden did not for an instant believe—and what place better than an opera box for a discreet talk? Decidedly he should have gone along!

Perhaps it was not yet too late. He glanced at his watch—yes, eleven forty-five—the opera was over. But there remained Ciro’s and the Sporting Club....

In another instant, he was kicking off his slippers and reaching for his shoes.