Fitzgerald sat by a window in the music room. He had resurrected from noone knew where a clay with a broken stem. There was a thoughtful castto his countenance, and he puffed away, blissfully unconscious of, orindifferent to, the close proximity of the velvet curtains. A thriftyhousewife, could she have seen the smoke rise and curl and lose itselfin the folds above, would have experienced the ecstasy of anxiety andperturbation. But there was no thrifty housewife at the Red Chateau,nothing but dreams of conquest and revenge.
Twilight was gathering about, soft-footed and shadowful. Long reachesof violet and vermilion clouds pressed thickly on the western line ofhills. The mists began to rise, changing from opal to sapphire. Thefantastic melodies of wandering gypsy songs went throbbing through theroom; rollicking gavots, Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes.As the music grew sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.
Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness returnedand overwhelmed him. They marshaled past, thirteen in all; and therewere glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains, men moving in the blurof smoke, long watches in the night. Thirteen years in God-forsakenoutposts, with never a sight of a woman's face, the sound of her voice,the swish of her gown, nor a touch of the spell which radiates from herpresence.
He had never made friends. Others had come up to him and passed him, andhad gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt of the cold,the heat, the watchfulness. He had made his bed; he was too much hisfather's son to whine because it was hard. Often he used to think how afew words, from a pride humbled, would have removed the barrier. But thewords never came, nor was the pride ever humbled.
Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months ofpleasure. He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta, where hisColonel, who had received secret information concerning him, had treatedhim like a gentleman, and had employed him as regimental interpreter,for he spoke French and German and a smattering of Indian tongues.During his lonely hours he had studied, for he knew that some day hewould be called upon to administer a vast fortune.... He laid the pipeon the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin in hishands. What a fool he had been to waste the best years of his life! Hisfather would have opened to him a boundless career; he would have seenthe world under the guidance of a master hand. And here he was to-day,the possessor of millions, a beggar in friends, no niche to fill, awanderer from place to place.
The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the memorieswhich it would arouse would be too bitter.... The shade of Beethoventouched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin. But he wasthinking only of his loneliness, and the marvelous touch of the handswhich evoked the great spirits was lost upon him.
Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners. He had still much goodhumor to recover. He pulled at his lips, and wondered from time to timewhat was going on in Fitzgerald's head. Poor devil! he thought; couldhe resist this woman whose accomplishments were so varied that at onemoment she could overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to somestrolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could entertain forher nothing but admiration, what hope was there for the Englishman? Whata woman! She savored of three hundred years off. To plan by herself, toarrange the minutest detail, and above all to wait patiently! Patiencehas never been the attribute of a woman of power; Madame possessed bothpatience and power.
The countess was seated in another dark corner. Suddenly she arose andsaid, in a voice blended with great trouble and impatience: "For pity'ssake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play something lively; I am sad."
The music stopped, but presently began again. Maurice leaned forward.Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise. He laughed silently. He was inMadame's thoughts. It struck him, however, that the notes had a defiantring.
"Lights!" called Madame, rising from the stool.
Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired. Maurice, whenhis eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the three faces.Madame's was radiant. Fitzgerald's was a mixture--a comical mixture--ofcontent and enjoyment, but the countess's was as colorless as the waxin the candlesticks. He asked himself what other task she had to performthat she should take so long to recover her roses. Had the knowledge ofher recent humiliation been too much for her?
She was speaking to him. "Monsieur, will you walk with me in the park? Iam faint."
"Are you ill, countess?" asked Madame, coming up and placing her handunder the soft round chin of the other and striving to read her eyes.
"Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive me."When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice: "Monsieur,I have brought you here to tell you something. I fear that your friendis lost, for you can do nothing."
"Not even if I break my word?" he asked.
"It would do no good."
"Why?"
"It is too late," lowly. "I have been Madame's understudy too long notto read. Forgive me. I was to keep you apart; I have done so. Theevil can not now be repaired. Your hope is that Madame has not fullyconsidered his pride."
"Has she any regard for him?"
"Sentiment?--love?" She uttered a short, incredulous laugh. "Madame hasbrain, not heart. Could a woman with a heart plan as she plans?"
"Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of--"
"Monsieur, do not be unkind. I have asked your forgiveness. Let us nottalk; let us be silent and listen to the night;" and she leaned over theterrace balustrade.
Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed hair blewacross his nostrils. ... The princess was at best a dream. It was notlikely that he ever would speak to her again. The princess was a poem,unlettered and unrhymed. But here, close to him, was a bit of beautifulmaterial prose. The hair again blew out toward him and he moved hislips. She heard the vague sound and lifted her head.
Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the stables.There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.
The Puppet Crown Page 14