Wanted, an English Girl

by Moore, Dorothea

  Gillian could not help thinking that Captain Fritz von Posen, in spite of the passionate love of music of which he had spoken to Mademoiselle de Monti, was much more interested in the position of certain of his acquaintances in the opera-house than in the opera itself. She heard him move about a good deal, provoking a timid “Hush!” from some music-lovers behind him, but her soul was too much on the stage to care a great deal what anybody else was doing. She did not even look up to the Royal box, when there was a sudden curious sound, like an intaken breath, in the theatre, and the Grand-Duchess Carina came very quietly indeed into her place, standing up for a moment in the front of the box to let the lady with her take off her long satin cloak.

  The orchestra stopped dead, and in the silence Gill heard a curious little sharp sound of excitement come from between Von Posen’s teeth.

  What was happening? Surely the orchestra were not going to do anything so dreadfully incongruous as to play the National Anthem of Insterburg in the middle of Lohengrin’s first act? Gill was sure that Carina could not have meant that to happen, or she would not have slipped in so quietly and unobtrusively that even the music-lovers whom Captain von Posen was tormenting had not looked up till Gill herself did.

  Rupert-George and Mademoiselle de Monti, both used to Insterburg and its ways, plainly did not expect the National Anthem either. Gill heard him say “What’s up?” and Gabrielle de Monti answer, quite indifferently: “Oh, some small hitch, I expect—strange in so magnificent a company.”

  And then it was all explained.

  The door at the back of the Royal box was open still; the lady in attendance upon Carina had only just taken the satin cloak away when—Captain von Posen stood up behind Gill, and, leaning over her, made an imperative sign to some one below.

  Immediately the great German orchestra broke from the music of the first act into the Bridal March of the third (so familiar at English weddings), and at the same moment Prince Waldemar came through the open door of the box and stepped forward to Carina’s side.

  There they stood for a moment while the orchestra thundered forth the Bridal March—side by side, facing the crowded house—a position capable of only one interpretation on the face of it.

  Gillian heard a stifled exclamation, as of dismay, from Mademoiselle de Monti, and a very much stronger one from Rupert-George. Then she saw Carina pull away the hand which Waldemar had tried to take, and sit down, her face flushed, her eyes furious.

  The cheers which were beginning to overpower the music broke off abruptly, and Rupert-George got up.

  “That was a put-up job then, on the part of that infernal German bounder, and there’s no man with her,” he said between his teeth. “You are going to her, of course, Mademoiselle; so am I—to throw him out.”

  Gillian had an idea that they had forgotten her altogether, for they were off in an instant—regardless of feet in their way. Music-lovers needed no consideration just then, however, for the orchestra had ceased to play, and the whole great opera-house was one seething buzz of talk and conjecture. Gillian bore her desertion for a moment, and then plunged desperately after the other two, noticing as she did so that Captain von Posen had also left his place.

  She did not know her way, of course, but the grand staircase with its sage-green carpet had a hand on one side pointing to “Boxes,” and when she had dashed down as far as the turn of the staircase she saw Mademoiselle de Monti’s opal-tinted satin dress ahead of her.

  Gillian did not stop to think that, however much she might feel herself Carina’s champion, it was not her place to follow her hostess to the Royal box, uninvited; she simply rushed on, and arrived at its open door only a minute after Mademoiselle de Monti, and just as Captain von Posen reached it from another side.

  Gillian stood still at the doorway; Rupert-George was inside—she could hear his voice, though he was not speaking loudly.

  “Your Imperial Highness will excuse me. There is hardly room in the box for so many.”

  Prince Waldemar came out, almost falling over Gillian, and so very rapidly as almost to suggest that his exit had been aided physically as well as morally by the outwardly polite remarks of Captain Cartaret. His face was pale with anger, and he swore heavily at Captain von Posen, who happened to be the first person that he saw.

  Mademoiselle de Monti had gone into the box; Gillian heard Carina cry, “Oh, Gabrielle!” and then she spoke again, this time in a sort of white blaze.

  “Captain Cartaret, none of my gentlemen are here; be good enough to make the people understand—now, at once!”

  Rupert-George bowed and stood forward in the front of the Royal box, holding up his hand for silence. He got it instantly, and the hush was almost uncanny, when it came, from its intensity.

  “The directors of the opera-house will deal with the extraordinary carelessness displayed by an otherwise first-rate opera-company in substituting the Bridal March of the Third Act, for the National Anthem, at the entrance of her Grand-ducal Highness,” he said. “But it is the desire of her Grand-ducal Highness that I should say, once and for all, that her well-known dislike to the Philistinism of interrupting a performance with the National Anthem should have made it impossible for such an error to occur. His Imperial Highness Prince Waldemar desires me to express his deep annoyance that a German opera-company should have been guilty of such a mistake in taste; an annoyance which he hastened to the Royal box to express to the Grand-Duchess, so soon as he realised the blunder. The Grand-Duchess desires that the opera should now proceed.”

  Gillian, standing breathless and excited, in the dark corner by the door, saw Prince Waldemar catch at the arm of his aide-de-camp with a fierce grip.

  “The damned meddler! Settle him when he comes out, Fritz!”

  But Rupert-George did not come out. Instead Carina’s voice said, evidently answering somebody: “Yes, I will sit it out; but you must both stay with me, please,” and then Mademoiselle de Monti cried, dismayed:

  “But poor little Gillian!”

  Gill stepped forward, just as Waldemar, with a muttered oath, took Von Posen’s arm and walked away with him.

  “Please, I’m here, Mademoiselle de Monti,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind—I came after you.”

  Mademoiselle de Monti came to the door and drew her into the Royal box.

  “Gillian is here, ma’am,” she announced, in a much-relieved voice.

  “Is she? I am glad. She was quite right to come too,” said Carina, smiling at her.

  She did not say anything more just then to Gillian, after that one little sentence of welcome. For one thing, the opera had been resumed in obedience to Captain Cartaret’s direction. But she gave Gill a sense that she was really glad to see her, in her smile and gesture towards an unoccupied seat near her own. Gill sat down, feeling very happy.

  The opera itself had ceased to be of the same thrilling interest in the face of the exciting things which had been happening off the stage to-night. Gillian found herself studying the people in the box more than the singers.

  The flush faded from Carina’s face and left her rather white, but with eyes that glittered like two stars. She sat upright in her place, outwardly as composed and dignified as even Mademoiselle Pipignon could have wished, but inwardly—Gill was sure of that—inwardly hot with fury at the plot between Prince Waldemar and the German opera-company to force her hand and present him in the guise of her accepted suitor to the publicity of the crowded opera-house.

  Even Gillian’s inexperience could not doubt that the opera-company had acted under Prince Waldemar’s orders, and so put the Grand-Duchess into a horrible position, from which only Rupert-George’s wit and promptness had saved her.

  Rupert-George—Gill looked at him next. He was standing very still behind Carina, his arms folded. His good-looking face was extremely grave, but it was not that fact which gave such a shock to Gillian. What had happened was enough to make anybody grave. It was the way in which he looked at the Grand-Duchess.

>   Gill felt that she was walking straight into romance.

  CHAPTER XII

  How it Ended

  Dick Cheshire joined the Royal party at the door of the opera-house, a Dick who was as usual overflowing with good temper and good spirits.

  He seized upon Gillian in the vestibule, where a path was being kept clear for Carina.

  “There you are! Where’s Mademoiselle de Monti? She’s always late, and I’m hungry, if you’re not.”

  Gillian had begun to miss her dinner very much indeed quite an hour before, and she had small hope of finding anything comforting like hot milk and biscuits waiting for her at the house in the Rue St. Denise. But she could not expect that Mademoiselle de Monti would be able to think of things like supper-partiee at Estinotti’s after what had happened. The lady in attendance upon the Grand-Duchess had been a dull-looking girl; Carina would be certain to want Mademoiselle de Monti.

  “Yes, I’m hungry; but I don’t think … I mean I don’t expect that Mademoiselle de Monti will be able to come to-night,” she whispered. “I should think perhaps that I had better have a taxi (what do they call them here?) and go home.”

  “Why, what on earth—?” Dick was beginning in unfeigned bewilderment, when the Grand-Duchess herself turned round.

  “Gillian! Where is Gillian?”

  Gillian hurried forward. Carina took her hand and spoke in a very low voice.

  “I never thanked you for coming to me to-night. I know why you came, don’t I? Thank you, dear, for it. Now go and enjoy yourself with my dear Gabrielle.”

  Mademoiselle de Monti took Gill’s hand and drew her back, and the Duchess stepped swiftly, followed by her lady, through a wondering, gazing crowd, to where her car waited at the door. Her little head was well up—Gill wondered whether she felt all those eyes and hated them but would not show it.

  Dick looked after her for a second in silence, rather gravely, then turned to Mademoiselle de Monti.

  “Come on; aren’t you dying for supper?”

  “One moment, Dick,” she said. “Do you see Captain Cartaret—you have met him, haven’t you?—standing beside that pillar?”

  “Yes. Have you been squashing him? He looks rather glum.”

  “I think if you were to ask him he would come to supper with us.”

  “But—I say—of course it’s just as you like, and he’s all right, but I don’t know that I want to ask him so very especially,” Dick remonstrated in a whisper. “You’ll talk to him instead of to me, you know, and he’ll probably turn out to be a great pal of the Von Traumes, so that I shan’t be able to ask Miss Gillian about the baggy girl.”

  Mademoiselle de Monti spoke low but imperatively.

  “Don’t play, Dick. It’s important. Ask him at once, please,” and at that Dick did push his way towards Cartaret, through the vestibule crowded with people talking, questioning, contradicting all in one confused buzz now that the constraint of the Grand-Duchess’s presence was withdrawn.

  Gillian wondered for a second why Mademoiselle de Monti’s voice should sound like that.

  She looked towards Captain Cartaret wondering if he knew the reason, and as she looked she saw that the Prussian officer, Captain von Posen, was copying Dick; that is to say, he too was certainly pushing his way towards the tall man motionless by the pillar. Mademoiselle de Monti must have seen him before she spoke to Dick, but Captain Cartaret seemed to be quite oblivious of the fact that he was the objective of two people.

  Dick reached him first; that was to be expected, as to do him justice he had put considerable energy into the errand so soon as Mademoiselle de Monti’s tone convinced him that she really wanted Captain Cartaret to join the party.

  Gill saw him turn sharply as Dick touched him on the arm, listen for a second, and then follow the boy through the throng towards Mademoiselle de Monti and herself, making his way with the speed and neatness of a man who is used to London dances.

  Captain von Posen tried to cut across and intercept him, but, less skilful in his movements, was still some distance off when Rupert-George reached Mademoiselle de Monti and offered her his arm.

  “Is your car outside?”

  “Yes, waiting. Let us come at once. This child is famishing—she had no dinner,” Mademoiselle de Monti said, turning at once to the outer door. “Take care of her, Dick.”

  And they were out on the wide steps of the opera-house and in the car long before Captain von Posen had finished catching his spurs in ladies’ evening dresses, and swearing at the ladies in an undertone for being in the way.

  A young man in uniform came down the steps of the opera-house just as the party were established in the car. The white brilliance of the myriad electric lights starring the colonnade caught the glitter of his epaulettes and buttons, and made a very conspicuous figure of him there.

  He was recognised—indeed it would have been impossible for anyone who had been in the opera-house that night to fail to recognise his Imperial Highness Prince Waldemar—and some daring person in the crowd raised a loud hiss. It was taken up far and wide, though the many Germans outside the opera-house did their best to drown the sound in throaty cheers.

  But it was there, a sibilant undercurrent that would not be lost—a sound that the man who had insulted the Grand-Duchess in her own capital was forced to hear and to heed.

  He stood on the steps for a moment, his face sullen, then hurried down them and disappeared into a side street.

  “To Estinotti’s!” Dick Cheshire gave the order sharply to the chauffeur, and then tucked long legs somehow into the fourth corner of the car, remarking genially:

  “I wish they’d kicked instead of only hissing the bounder!”

  “Quite agree with you—only I should like to reserve the kicking to myself,” said Rupert-George.

  And then he and Mademoiselle de Monti between them told Dick what had happened in the opera-house.

  His fury was so violent that Gill quite expected to see him stop the car and rush back in pursuit of Prince Waldemar, regardless of the fact that he was the host at Estinotti’s.

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me before?” he demanded explosively, glaring at Captain Cartaret as though he considered him chiefly to blame. “What possessed you to keep it dark while the brute was there? I’d have choked his confounded lies down his throat for him and—”

  “And been arrested by the police as drunk and disorderly,” Mademoiselle de Monti broke in impatiently. “Don’t be so childish, Dick. Captain Cartaret did all that anyone could do, and did it magnificently—made Prince Waldemar appear a fool before the whole great audience.”

  “I don’t suppose he loves me for what I said, though nominally the opera-company had to bear the brunt,” Cartaret observed. “I am afraid the too-obedient leader of the orchestra will get a bad quarter of an hour with our musical directors—he’ll be the scapegoat, you’ll see, though of course it was a put-up job from first to last—and a plan worthy of Waldemar. Did he look a little less—Prussian when he came out of the box, Miss Gillian? You were outside, weren’t you?”

  “He looked savage,” Gill told them, “and he told that Captain von Posen to settle with … with you … when you came out.”

  “Did he? What did—?” began Mademoiselle de Monti, but Captain Cartaret only laughed.

  “Don’t feel worried about that, please. The Prussian eagle is uncommonly fond of flapping his wings and making a lot of noise about the business,” he remarked.

  “Well, there’s one good thing, I should think that Prussian bounder has settled his own hash for good and all to-night,” Dick suggested, cooling a little. “Carina—oh, all right, Mademoiselle de Monti, but it does slip out when you’ve played at hiding Jacobites in the secret passage together, not so many years ago—the Grand-Duchess won’t marry him now, if all the Kaisers in the world worry her about it, and all the Premiers trot out photographs of likely Princes for her inspection. Talking of which, we had such a doing the other day,” Dick added
gaily, turning to Gillian. “The old boy—the Premier, I mean—had been moving heaven and earth to get a photo of Prince Alexander—what’s-his-name, the English one who travels and won’t be bothered with royalty, and couldn’t get it nohow, for the chap objects to being photographed, apparently. Old Monsieur Dellotte is as blind as a bat, so I wrote ‘Alexander’ in my best writing across my newest photo and gave it him, and he never spotted it, and took the lot up to Carina—um—yes, of course—Her Highness—and went on about the suitability of him till I nearly exploded outright.”

  “But didn’t the Grand-Duchess know your photograph?” Gillian asked.

  “Rather! but she wouldn’t give me away, bless her! we’re old pals—so she just told Monsieur Dellotte that she couldn’t be bothered and hated suitable people, and—”

  “Dick! was this meant to be repeated?” interrupted Mademoiselle de Monti, and Dick had the grace to become ashamed of his indiscretion.

  “I ought to be shut up in a cage, with a dentist’s gag in my mouth,” he groaned.

  “You ought to grow up!” Mademoiselle de Monti told him, still severely. She was more angry than Gillian would have expected, since what Dick repeated had evidently been more or less of a joke between Carina and himself, and Captain Cartaret was a friend.

  They reached Estinotti’s before more could be said, and Captain Cartaret handed out Mademoiselle de Monti, while Dick took charge of Gill.

  These two followed the other couple at some little distance, for Dick had waited to tell the chauffeur when to come back, before taking Gillian into the fairyland of the famous Italian restaurant, and the pair in front were so absorbed in conversation that they never even looked back to see if Dick and Gill were following.

  “Look at that!” grumbled Dick. “It’s always the way when those two are together. I don’t suppose I shall get a word in edgeways with Mademoiselle de Monti all the evening now. Cartaret’s a good chap enough, but he really needn’t come and queer my pitch.”