Читать книгу The Colossus of Arcadia - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 4

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The entrance of Mollinet, the manager of the Hôtel de Paris, into the bar, accompanied by his distinguished patron, created something in the nature of a sensation. One or two men rose from their places and came over to shake hands with the new arrival. Several women waved their hands. Phyllis Mallory, the famous tennis player, even threw him a kiss. Nina de Broussoire, the French danseuse, who was seated by herself on one of the high stools, triumphed now in the isolation which a moment or two before had made her peevish, and was the first to offer her greetings to this popular visitor.

“Where are the De Hochepierres?” Lord Henry asked Colonel Brinlinton, the secretary of the Tennis Club, who had hurried up to pay his respects.

The latter glanced at the clock.

“They will be along in a few minutes,” he replied. “We have made a sort of a club of the round table in the window at the bottom. Just the old gang—Phyllis Mallory, Maurice Donnithorne and Foxley Brent, who has just turned up from Deauville, and of course the Domiloffs.”

“What about Dolly Parker?”

“Oh, she’s one of ’em, naturally. She’s playing tennis this morning. I left her in the middle of a set.”

Lord Henry smiled happily.

“Jove, it’s good to be here, Brinlinton,” he declared. “If you had had a month of our fogs! Why, we had to break up the last shooting party I was at in Norfolk. To think that I can push open my windows and look out on that sea in the mornings and let the sunlight into my room makes me feel young again!”

“Monsieur is always young and always gay,” the little lady on the stool observed.

Her neighbour patted her back gently.

“Meet me, my child,” he groaned, “on Blakeney Marshes towards dusk when the keeper’s whistle has sounded and we are bending forward trying to peer into the mist, not a thing to be seen and our trigger fingers pretty well numbed. Then there is a sudden rustle and the birds we have been trying to get a shot at, standing in the biting cold for over an hour, go swooping by—not one of them visible! You won’t find me gay then, I can promise you! . . . Any chance of a knock-up at tennis this afternoon, Brinlinton?”

“Rather,” was the prompt reply. “I’ll get it up for you. Ah, here’s Domiloff at last. I thought he would have been here to greet you.”

A man of apparently early middle age, notable even in that crowded place for his air of distinction, entered the bar from the Place du Casino and came swiftly through the room to the farther end of the counter.

“My dear Henry!” he exclaimed, holding out both hands. “This is delightful! I meant to get down to the station to meet you but at the last moment there was a rush and I found it difficult to get away. Now at last Monte Carlo is itself again. Pretty fit, I hope?”

“I’m all right now I’m here,” was the hearty response. “Who would not be? And you? But you never vary.”

Domiloff smiled a little cryptically. His eyes were bright, his mouth firm and steady and there were as yet only thin streaks of grey in his hair. Nevertheless, there were deep lines in his face. He possessed the easy, gracious manners of a diplomatist. His voice was pleasant, his carriage still full of vitality. He seemed to bring with him the atmosphere of great places, reminiscent of the Court of St. Petersburg, at which he had been a famous figure.

“Life has been a little strenuous lately,” he confessed, “but one survives.”

Louis, the head barman, who had hurried up to pay his respects to the unofficial ruler of the Principality, produced as though by magic a cocktail shaker, poured out its contents and handed the result to the man he worshipped. The latter poised the glass for a moment delicately between his thumb and first finger, then he threw his head back and drank. He set down the glass empty.

“You choose always the right moment, Louis,” he said quietly. “Two more of those. His lordship will join me, I am sure.”

The latter nodded. The little girl by his side had slipped away for a moment and the two men were alone.

“In town one has been hearing curious rumours about this place, Baron,” Lord Henry confided. “Is there any truth in them?”

Domiloff’s features were a study of impassivity. He was gazing out of the opened door through which one caught a glimpse of the gardens and the Café de Paris beyond. He looked through the lacework of the swaying boughs to the splash of colour created by the gay uniforms of the Hungarian orchestra. He listened for a moment to the throb of the music pleasantly blended with the murmuring voices of the crowd who were taking their morning apéritifs in the gardens. He looked away and answered his companion’s question indifferently, almost casually.

“There is always gossip about this place,” he remarked. “More fools the people who talk about what they do not understand. This time, however, there is some foundation for the rumours which you may have heard and which you will know more about in a few days. We have had to make some changes in the Constitution.”

Lord Henry leaned forward and glanced out of the window across the harbour towards the Palace. He looked back at his companion, who smiled faintly and shook his head.

“No one there,” he confided. “Between ourselves, I do not think there will be just yet. That particular trouble comes not from us but from the people down in Monaco. We have had to take sides, of course. For the first time in my life I find myself on the side of democracy.”

“It is not going to affect you personally, I hope?” the other asked bluntly.

Domiloff shook his head.

“No fear of that,” he replied. “I have done more real honest work in this place than I ever did before in my life and I believe the fact has been appreciated. We will talk of this again later. Here come Lydia and our friends. Lucille is prettier than ever and breaking more hearts. We must go over and join them.”

The two men walked the length of the bar and presented themselves before the little company who were eagerly awaiting them. There was Lydia, Domiloff’s wife, a beautiful woman of supreme elegance, with sombre, passionate eyes, silent usually, with little gaiety of manner but with subtle charm of speech and expression. By her side was Lucille, Princesse de Hochepierre de Martelle, who, notwithstanding the magnificence of her title, was a daughter of one of the industrial multi-millionaires of a far Western state in America. Her husband, Prince Léon de Hochepierre de Martelle, pallid of complexion, flaxen-haired, dressed with almost indecorous and flamboyant perfection, chubby-cheeked but languid, lounged in the background, a curious contrast to his attractive wife—petite, with hair the colour of red gold, deep-set soft eyes of an indescribable shade, the shade of falling leaves—a Watteau-like figure in her grace of movement and expression. With them were Phyllis Mallory, the international lawn-tennis player, athletic, good-natured but a little noisy, and Dolly Parker, witty, elegant and reckless, good-looking in a well-bred restrained sort of way, but approaching the forties and, as the Princess used to say in one of her spiteful moments, desperately unmarried. They all welcomed Lord Henry effusively. He was given the place of honour at the round table. The Prince called for caviar sandwiches and Louis brought over a trayful of champagne cocktails. The Princess, who was seated by Lord Henry’s side, devoted herself to the new arrival.

“You must come to my dinner on Saturday night,” she told him. “I am so glad that you arrived in time. You will meet all your old friends.”

Lord Henry was not enthusiastic. He took, perhaps, advantage of his long acquaintance with his would-be hostess.

“My dear Lucille,” he protested, “don’t ask me. You know how badly I always behave at large dinner parties. There are very few people who are good-natured enough still to invite me, and even then I seldom go. I cannot sit still long enough and apart from that, when I dine I like to choose my own dishes.”

“You are the rudest and greediest man I ever knew,” she told him severely.

“It is not rudeness,” he assured her. “It is sincerity. I suppose you will have your own way with me. If you insist I shall probably come, but, in a general way, why should I accept invitations to gala dinners, which I detest? Dine with me alone, dear Lucille, any night you like—anywhere—preferably when Léon is away,” he added, raising his voice a little.

“You—with your reputation!” she exclaimed in horror. “Dine alone with you, with all the world looking on! My dear Henry! Besides, Léon would not permit it.”

“You needn’t dine with my reputation,” he told her. “I’ll leave that behind, if you like.”

“You are incorrigible! You will have to come to my dinner, though. I am getting tired of the old gang. Dolly was right when she said yesterday that life was too intensive here.”

“There’s a new face for you and an extraordinarily pretty one,” he remarked, leaning forward in his place. “American, too, by the cut of her clothes. She’s sitting in that corner alone.”

The Princess glanced towards Joan Haskell, who had just come in and was seated in a distant corner. She made a little moue.

“I am never overkeen on meeting any of my country-people,” she admitted coolly. “They know too much of one’s antecedents. Tell me, who is the man in the yachting cap who has just come in? He’s talking to Foxley Brent at the other end of the room.”

Lord Henry glanced in the direction she indicated and waved his hand cheerfully to the newcomer.

“By Jove, it’s Julian Townleyes,” he confided. “I heard he was cruising about one of those dangerous Spanish places—Barcelona, I think it was—in a converted barge or something.”

“He looks interesting!”

“He’s the man for your dinner party,” Lord Henry continued. “Used to dine out five nights a week in London, and enjoyed it.”

“Is he anybody in particular?” the Princess, who was a terrible little snob, enquired.

“I always tell you you should give up your flat in Paris and your country house at Les Landes and settle down in London,” he reminded her severely. “You would get to know who we all are, then. Townleyes is the seventh Baronet, has been a notable figure in the Foreign Office, and if he had not got into some slight diplomatic trouble—I don’t remember what it was, but he had to suffer for someone else’s mistake—he would have been a Cabinet Minister before now.”

“You must present him,” Lucille insisted.

Her neighbour held up his hand and the man in the yachting cap, who had just arrived from the port, picked up his cocktail glass from the counter and came across to them. Lord Henry rose to his feet and exchanged greetings.

“Townleyes,” he said, “the Princess has asked me to present you. Sir Julian Townleyes—the Princess de Hochepierre de Martelle.”

Townleyes bowed over Lucille’s extended fingers in the best Continental fashion. He murmured a few words suitable to the occasion.

“The Princess,” her sponsor went on, “is the uncrowned Queen of Monte Carlo, as you would know, my dear fellow, if you visited us a little oftener. Whatever she bids us to do, we do—cheerfully if possible—if not, we still do it. I believe that she is going to ask you to dine.”

“Princess,” Townleyes replied, “I should hate to be considered a rebel at your court, but Lord Henry is being a little unfair to me. He knows that I very seldom dine out and that I am just taking an ex-sailorman’s holiday down in these parts.”

“Nevertheless,” she begged, liking him the more as she realized the smooth charm of his voice, “you will come to my party?”

“You have added a very dull guest to your gathering, Princess, but I will come, of course.”

She smiled with an air of relief. At the moment, she scarcely realized how anxious she had been for him to accept her invitation. Townleyes had a gift of attraction which was quite unanalyzable.

“We are a small party—only about twenty,” she confided. “There are nine other men and I promise you that every one of them is a duller person than you seem to me. At half-past nine on Saturday night at the Sporting Club.”

“I shall be very disappointing,” he warned her.

“Finish your cocktail and have another,” she invited, “or rather don’t finish it. It has lost its chill.”

She signed to the barman who was passing at the moment.

“Bring Sir Julian another cocktail, the same as he is drinking,” she directed. “Lord Henry, too, myself, and heavens!—all this time with you two fascinating people I have forgotten to present my husband. Léon!”

The Prince, who had been talking vociferously to the crowd at the next table, moved back at his wife’s injunction.

“This is Sir Julian Townleyes, Léon,” she said. “My husband—Prince de Hochepierre de Martelle. Sir Julian dines with us on Saturday night.”

“Delighted,” her husband murmured. “I watched you bring your boat in an hour ago, Sir Julian. I put you down as a sailor rather than a politician.”

“I started life in the Navy,” Townleyes explained, “and yachting on a small scale has always been my favourite hobby. You must come down and have a look at my boat, if you are interested.”

“It would give me great pleasure,” the Prince declared. “I myself am fond of the sea. Tell me,” he went on, leaning forward in his chair, “who is the very attractive young lady in the corner?”

The Princess raised her lorgnette. Lord Henry glanced admiringly at his late travelling companion. Townleyes screwed in his eyeglass for a moment, then dropped it quickly.

“I have never seen her before in my life,” he said in his calm, pleasant tone. “I agree with you, though, that she is attractive.”

“She is from my country, without a doubt,” the Princess said. “She wears her clothes with too much chic for an English girl and too little for a French demoiselle.”

“Fortunately,” Lord Henry remarked, “Mollinet rather looks upon me as one of the male chaperons of the place when there are new arrivals. I shall make myself known to the young lady at the first opportunity.”

“Rascal!” the Princess murmured. “I shall tell her of your reputation.”

“Tell her the truth, dear Lucille,” he replied amiably, “and I shall be content. You might put in a word of warning about that scoundrel of a husband of yours.”

The Princess laughed softly. She took her cocktail from the salver which was being extended to her.

“On second thought,” she decided, “I shall not say a word to her about either of you. I have an idea—”

“Share it with me, beloved,” her husband begged.

“Well, I have an idea that you are neither of you exactly what that young lady is looking for.”