Somewhat timorously I knocked at the Countess’s door. I realised that it was a most unseemly hour for calling on a young, beautiful and unprotected lady, but the exigencies of the moment lent moral support to my invasion.
After waiting five minutes and then knocking again so loudly that the sound reverberated through the empty halls with a sickening clatter, I heard some one fumbling with the bolts. The door opened an inch OF two.
The Countess’s French maid peered out at me.
“Tell your mistress that I must see her at once.”
“Madame is not at home, m’sieur,” said the young woman.
“Not at home?” I gasped. “Where is she?”
“Madame has gone to bed.”
“Oh,” I said, blinking. “Then she is at home. Present my compliments and ask her to get up. Something very exasperating has hap—”
“Madame has request me to inform m’sieur that she knows the Count is here, and will you be so good as to call tomorrow morning.”
“What! She knows he’s here? Who brought the information?”
“The bountiful Max, m’sieur. He bring it with dejeuner, again with diner, and but now with the hot water, m’sieur.”
“Oh, I see,” said I profoundly. “In that case, I—I sha’n’t disturb her. How—er—how did she take it?”
She gave me a severely reproachful look.
“She took it as usual, m’sieur. In that dreadful little tin tub old Conrad—”
“Good heavens, girl! I mean the news—the news about the Count.”
“Mon dieu! I thought m’sieur refer to—But yes! She take it beautifully. I too mean the news. Madame is not afraid. Has she not the good, brave m’sieur to—what you call it—to shoulder all the worry, no? She is not alarm. She reads m’sieur’s latest book in bed, smoke the cigarette, and she say what the divil do she care.”
“What!”
“Non, non! I, Helene Marie Louise Antoinette, say it for Madame. Pardon! Pardon, m’sieur! It is I who am wicked.”
Very stiffly and ceremoniously I advised caution for the next twelve hours, and saying good night to Helene Marie Louise Antoinette in an unintentionally complimentary whisper, took myself off down the stairs, pursued by an equally subdued bon soir which made me feel like a soft-stepping Lothario.
Now it may occur to you that any self-respecting gentleman in possession of a castle and a grain of common sense would have set about to find out the true names of the guests beneath his roof. The task would have been a simple one, there is no doubt of that. A peremptory command with a rigid alternative would have brought out the truth in a jiffy.
But it so happens that I rather enjoyed the mystery. The situation was unique, the comedy most exhilarating. Of course, there was a tragic side to the whole matter, but now that I was in for it, why minimise the novelty by adopting arbitrary measures? Three minutes of stern conversation with Elsie Hazzard would enlighten me on all the essential points; perhaps half an hour would bring Poopendyke to terms; a half a day might be required in the brow-beating of the frail Countess. With the Schmicks, there was no hope. But why not allow myself the pleasure of enjoying the romantic feast that had been set before me by the gods of chance? Chance ordered the tangle; let chance unravel it. Somewhat gleefully I decided that it would be good fun to keep myself in the dark as long as possible!
“Mr. Poopendyke,” said I, after that nervous factotum had let me into my side of the castle with gratifying stealthiness, “you will oblige me by not mentioning that fair lady’s name in my presence.”
“You did not stay very long, sir,” said he in a sad whisper, and for the life of me I couldn’t determine what construction to put upon the singularly unresponsive remark.
When I reached the room where my guests were assembled, I found Mr. Pless and the Baron Umovitch engaged in an acrimonious dispute over a question of bridge etiquette. The former had resented a sharp criticism coming from the latter, and they were waging a verbal battle in what I took to be five or six different tongues, none of which appeared to bear the slightest relationship to the English language. Suddenly Mr. Pless threw his cards down and left the table, without a word of apology to the two ladies, who looked more hurt than appalled.
He said he was going to bed, but I noticed that he took himself off in the direction of the moonlit loggia. We were still discussing his defection in subdued tones—with the exception of the irate baron—when he re-entered the room. The expression on his face was mocking, even accusing. Directing his words to me, he uttered a lazy indictment.
“Are there real spirits in your castle, Mr. Smart, or have you flesh and blood mediums here who roam about in white night dresses to study the moods of the moon from the dizziest ramparts?”
I started. What indiscretion had the Countess been up to?
“I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Pless,” I said, with a politely blank stare.
Confound his insolence! He winked at me!
CHAPTER VIII
I RESORT TO DIPLOMACY
“My dear Countess,” said I, the next morning, “while I am willing to admit that all you say is true, there still remains the unhappy fact that you were very near to upsetting everything last night. Mr. Pless saw you quite plainly. The moon was very full, you’ll remember. Fortunately he was too far away from your window to recognise you. Think how easy it might—”
“But I’ve told you twice that I held my hand over Pinko’s nose and he just couldn’t bark, Mr. Smart. You are really most unreasonable about it. The dog had to have a breath of fresh air.”
“Why not send him up to the top of the tower and let him run around on the—”
“Oh, there’s no use talking about it any longer,” she said wearily. “It is all over and no real harm was done. I am awfully sorry if they made it uncomfortable for you. It is just like him to suggest something—well, scandalous. And the rest of them are dreadful teases, especially Mrs. Smith. They love anything risque. But you haven’t told me what they said that kept you awake all night.”
My dignity was worth beholding.
“It was not what they said to me, Countess, but what they left unsaid. I sha’n’t tell you what they said.”
“I think I can make a pretty good guess—”
“Well, you needn’t!” I cried hastily, but too late. She would out with it.
“They accuse you of being a sad, sad dog, a foxy; bachelor, and a devil of a fellow. They all profess to be very much shocked, but they assure you that it’s all right,—not to mind them. They didn’t think you had it in you, and they’re glad to see you behaving like a scamp. Oh, I know them!”
As a matter of fact, she was pretty near to being right. “All the more reason for you to be cautious and circumspect,” said I boldly. “Pray think of my position, if not your own.”
She gave me a queer little look and then smiled brightly. (She is lovely!)
“I’ll promise to be good,” she said.
“I only ask you to be careful,” said I, blunderingly. She laughed aloud: her merriest, most distracting gurgle.
“And now will you be good enough to tell me who I am?” she asked, after a few minutes. “That is, who am I supposed to be?”
“Oh,” said I uneasily, “you are really nobody. You are Britton’s wife.”
“What! Does Britton know it?”
“Yes,” said I, with a wry smile. “He took a mean advantage of me in the presence of George Hazzard not an hour ago, and asked for a raise in wages on account of his wife’s illness. It seems that you are an invalid.”
“I hope he hasn’t forgotten the baby in his calculations.”
“He hasn’t, you may be sure. He has named the baby after me.”
“How original!”
“I thought it rather clever to change Rosemary’s sex for a few days,” said I. “Moreover, it will be necessary for Britton to take Max’s place as your personal servant. He will fetch your meals and—”
“Oh, I can’t agree
to that, Mr. Smart,” she cried with decision. “I must have Max. He is—”
“But Britton must have some sort of a pretext for—”
“Nonsense! No one cares about Britton and his sick wife. Let well enough alone.”
“I—I’ll think it over, Countess,” said I weakly.
“And now tell me all about—Mr. Pless. How is he looking? Does he appear to be unhappy?” There was a curious note in her voice, as of anxiety or eagerness, it was hard to tell which. In any case, I found myself inwardly resenting her interest in the sneering Hungarian. (I had discovered that he was not an Austrian.) There was a queer sinking sensation in the region of my heart, and a slight chill. Could it be possible that she—But no! It was preposterous!
“He appears to be somewhat sentimental and preoccupied. He gazes at the moon and bites his nails.”
“I—I wish I could have a peep at him some time without being—”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t even consider such a thing,” I cried in alarm.
“Just a little peek, Mr. Smart,” she pleaded.
“No!” said I firmly.
“Very well,” she said resignedly, fixing me with hurt eyes. “I’m sorry to be such a bother to you.”
“I believe you’ll go back to him, after all,” I said angrily. “Women are all alike. They—”
“Just because I want to see how unhappy he is, and enjoy myself a little, you say horrid things to me,” she cried, almost pathetically. “You treat me very badly.”
“There is a great deal at stake,” said I. “The peril is—well, it’s enormous. I am having the devil’s own time heading off a scheme they’ve got for exploring the entire castle. Your hus—your ex-husband says he knows of a secret door opening into this part of the—”
She sprang to her feet with a sharp cry of alarm.
“Heavens! I—I forgot about that! There is a secret panel and—heaven save us!—it opens directly into my bedroom!” Her eyes were very wide and full of consternation. She gripped my arm. “Come! Be quick! We must pile something heavy against it, or nail it up, or—do something.”
She fairly dragged me out into the corridor, and then, picking up her dainty skirts, pattered down the rickety stairs at so swift a pace that I had some difficulty in keeping her pink figure in sight. Why is it that a woman can go downstairs so much faster than a man? I’ve never been able to explain it. She didn’t stumble once, or miss a step, while I did all manner of clumsy things, and once came near to pitching headlong to the bottom. We went down and down and round and round so endlessly that I was not only gasping but reeling.
At last we came to the broad hall at the top of the main staircase. Almost directly in front of us loomed the great padlocked doors leading to the other wing. Passing them like the wind she led the way to the farthermost end of the hall. Light from the big, paneless windows overlooking the river, came streaming into the vast corridor, and I could see doors ahead to the right and the left of us.
“Your bedroom?” I managed to gasp, uttering a belated question that should have been asked five or six flights higher up at a time when I was better qualified to voice it. “What the dickens is it doing down here?”
She did not reply, but, turning to the left, threw open a door and disappeared into the room beyond. I followed ruthlessly, but stopped just over the threshold to catch my breath in astonishment.
I was in “my lady’s bed-chamber.”
The immense Gothic bed stood on its dais, imposing in its isolation. Three or four very modern innovation trunks loomed like minarets against the opposite walls, half-open; one’s imagination might have been excused if it conjured up sentries who stood ready to pop out of the trunks to scare one half to death. Some of my most precious rugs adorned the floor, but the windows were absolutely undraped. There were a few old chairs scattered about, but no other article of furniture except an improvised wash-stand, and a clumsy, portable tin bath-tub which leaned nonchalantly against the foot of the bed. There were great mirrors, in the wall at one end of the room, cracked and scaly it is true, but capable of reflecting one’s presence.
“Don’t stand there gaping,” she cried in a shrill whisper, starting across the room only to turn aside with a sharp exclamation. “That stupid Helene!” she cried, flushing warmly. Catching up a heap of tumbled garments, mostly white, from a chair, she recklessly hurled them behind the bed. “This is the mirror—the middle one. It opens by means of a spring. There is a small hole in the wall behind it and then there is still another secret door beyond that, a thick iron one with the sixth Baron Rothhoefen’s portrait on the outer side of it. The canvas swings open. We must—”
I was beginning to get my bearings.
“The sixth baron? Old Ludwig the Red?”
“The very one.”
“Then, by Jove, he is in my study! You don’t mean to say—”
“Please don’t stop to talk,” she cried impatiently, looking about in a distracted manner, “but for goodness sake get something to put against this mirror.”
My mind worked rapidly. The only object in the room heavy enough to serve as a barricade was the bed, and it was too heavy for me to move, I feared. I suggested it, of course, involuntarily lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Pull it over, quick!” she commanded promptly.
“Perhaps I’d better run out and get Max and Ru—”
“If my hus—if Mr. Pless should open that secret door from the other side, Mr. Smart, it will be very embarrassing for you and me, let—”
I put my shoulder to the huge creaky bed and shoved. There were no castors. It did not budge. The Countess assisted me by putting the tips of her small fingers against one end of it and pushing. It was not what one would call a frantic effort on her part, but it served to make me exert myself to the utmost. I, a big strong man, couldn’t afford to have a slim countess pushing a bedstead about while I was there to do it for her.
“Don’t do that,” I protested. “I can manage it alone, thank you.”
I secured a strong grip on the bottom of the thing and heaved manfully.
“You might let me help,” she cried, firmly grasping a side piece with both hands.
The bed moved. The veins stood out on my neck and temples. My face must have been quite purple, and it is a hue that I detest. When I was a very small laddie my mother put me forward to be admired in purple velveteen. The horror of it still lingers.
By means of great straining I got the heavy bed over against the mirror, upsetting the tin bathtub with a crash that under ordinary circumstances would have made my heart stand still but now only tripled its pumping activities. One of the legs was hopelessly splintered in the drop from the raised platform.
“There,” she said, standing off to survey our joint achievement, “we’ve stopped it up very nicely.” She brushed the tips of her fingers daintily. “This afternoon you may fetch up a hammer and some nails and fasten the mirror permanently. Then you can move the bed back to its proper place. Goodness! What a narrow squeak!”
“Madam,” said I, my hand on my heart but not through gallantry, “that bed stays where it is. Not all the king’s horses nor all the king’s men can put it back again.”
“Was it so heavy, Mr. Smart?”
I swallowed very hard. A prophetic crick already had planted itself in my back. “Will you forgive me if I submit that you sleep quite a distance from home?” I remarked with justifiable irony. “Why the deuce don’t you stay on the upper floors?”
“Because I am mortally afraid,” she said, with a little shudder. “You’ve no idea how lonely, how spooky it is up there at the dead hour of night. I couldn’t sleep. After the third night I had my things moved down here, where I could at least feel that there were strong men within—you might say arm’s length of me. I’m—I’m shockingly timid.”
She smiled; a wavering, pleading little smile that conquered.
“Of course, I don’t mind, Countess,” I hastened to say. �
�Only I thought it would be cosier up there with Rosemary and the two maids for company.”
She leaned a little closer to me. “We all sleep down here,” she said confidentially. “We bring Rosemary’s little mattress down every night and put it in the bathtub. It is a very good fit and makes quite a nice cradle for her. Helene and Blake sleep just across the hall and we leave the doors wide open. So, you see, we’re not one bit afraid.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed and laughed.
“This is delicious,” I cried, not without compunction for I was looking directly into her eager, wistful eyes. A shadow crossed them. “I beg your pardon. I—I can’t help laughing.”
“Pray do not stop laughing on my account,” she said icily. “I am used to being laughed at since I left America. They laugh at all of us over here.”
“I dare say they laugh at me, confound them,” said I, lugubriously.
“They do,” said she flatly. Before I could quite recover from this sentient dig, she was ordering me to put the bathtub where it belonged. This task completed, I looked up. She was standing near the head of the bed, with a revolver in her hand. I stared. “I keep it under my pillow, Mr. Smart,” she said nervously. I said nothing, and she replaced it under the pillow, handling the deadly weapon as gingerly as if it were the frailest glass. “Of course I couldn’t hit anything with it, and I know I should scream when it went off, but still—accidents will happen, you know.”
“Urn!” said I, judicially. “And so my study is just beyond this mirror, eh? May I enquire how you happen to know that I have my study there?”
“Oh, I peeked in the other day,” she said, serene once more.
“The deuce you did!”
“I was quite sure that you were out,” she explained. “I opened Ludwig the Red an inch or two, that’s all. You are quite cosy in there, aren’t you? I envy you the grand old chaise longe.”
I wavered, but succeeded in subduing the impulse. “It is the only comfortable piece of furniture I have left in my apartments,” said I, with convincing candour.
“You poor man,” she said, with her rarest smile. “How fortunate you are that I did not remember the chaise longe. You would have been deprived of it, I am quite sure. Of course I couldn’t think of robbing you of it now.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 241