Gillian was silent, trying to take in this new idea. Captain Cartaret and Mademoiselle de Monti. Dick Cheshire evidently thought that they liked each other more than a little—and yet—what did that look mean, that puzzling look that she had caught for a moment on Rupert-George’s face as he stood in the Royal box behind the Grand-Duchess Carina?
“Do you mean you think they’re … in love?” she inquired in a respectful whisper.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Dick said, “but … well, anyhow, I shall expect you to be very nice to me and let Cartaret alone this evening. He isn’t going to absorb all the beauty just because he happens to be a bit older.”
Gillian laughed. “That’s very polite! What are we to do? Sit at a separate table as though they didn’t belong to us, or talk entirely to one another and leave them severely alone?”
“We’ll see,” Dick said. “To begin with, we’ll assert ourselves by selecting the table that we want without consulting them. Come on—which do you say?”
Gillian stood still in the door, looking silently into the great splendid room. Most people are impressed when they see the supper-room at Estinotti’s for the first time, and Gillian had not seen much in her life so far with which to compare it, so that it burst upon her in totally unexpected splendour.
A great arch, across which curtains can be drawn, divides the spacious room into two when required, and in winter time the curtains of rich gold brocade are drawn. But in the summer they are pulled back and one can see through the room from end to end by either of the great doors.
“What do you think about that table almost behind the curtain?” Dick suggested. “It’s a prime post, as I know, for seeing the people you want to see and not being seen by the bores.”
And Gillian found herself established at a dainty little table, set at the junction of the two rooms and hidden from most points in the further one by the heavy glittering folds of the curtain.
“What about the others? Won’t they be looking for us?” she inquired.
“Let them look—when they condescend to remember our existence. It will do that Cartaret chap good to have to stir himself instead of taking up all the attention of the prettiest girl in …”
Dick pulled himself up, with a ludicrous expression of dismay upon his handsome boyish face.
“I say! what have I been and gone and said? Something disgustingly rude; but, Miss Gillian, I do think you topping to look at in that frock—I really do!”
Gillian laughed—she could not help it.
“You needn’t apologise. I think Mademoiselle de Monti is the loveliest person I ever saw, so we just about agree. It was nice of you to say that about my frock, all the same,” she added rather shyly.
“Anyone would think it,” Dick assured her, with such refreshing heartiness that Gill could not help feeling him quite an old friend already, so old a friend that she might even lecture him a little.
“Do you know, I think we really ought to go to the others. There they are, in the further room—up in the corner. Mademoiselle de Monti will wonder …”
“She hasn’t started wondering yet—she and Cartaret have a lot too much to say to each other to spare the time for it,” observed Dick, who did not seem to have quite recovered his usual easy good-temper. “Cartaret hasn’t even started thinking of a table—oh, there’s a waiter after him—now it will begin to dawn upon him that we ought to be looked for. No! Miss Gillian, keep still a second longer—he won’t see us here, and he really isn’t Royalty that we should rush to him the instant he turns his head. Half a sec—he’ll keep our places—oh confound that big Prussian chap, plumping himself down there—doesn’t the blighter realise that the table’s booked for four? … Hullo, he doesn’t seem to take at all kindly to Cartaret’s polite explanations. … Oh, my aunt!”
The last ejaculation burst from Dick as the Prussian rose up from the place he had usurped at the booked table, and struck Captain Cartaret across the face with a table napkin.
Gillian said “Oh!” Dick gave vent to a long whistle, and then pushed his way rapidly among the glittering supper-tables to the scene of action.
Gill followed at her best speed, and arrived in time to hear Rupert-George, rather red but restrained, request Captain von Posen to take himself and his absence of manners out of the neighbourhood of ladies. He added force to the request by holding the Prussian’s elbow and walking with him firmly to the door.
Dick turned at once to Mademoiselle de Monti. “Drunk or intentional?” he asked.
She was very pale. “Intentional, I’m afraid. The quarrel was so obviously forced. He was near enough to hear Captain Cartaret book the table for four, when he came to sit down at it.”
“Sorry; I wish we’d rolled up sooner,” Dick said with compunction. He glanced uneasily towards the door, where Rupert-George and Captain von Posen were standing together for a moment, before the Prussian walked out and Rupert-George came back to the table laid for four.
“There you are at last, you two,” he said lightly. “You were such an age coming, Cheshire, that Mademoiselle de Monti and I were reduced to booking the table for you.”
Dick did not retort as Gillian expected. He seemed a little sobered for once.
“It’s time we had supper now, that’s certain,” he agreed. “Hi! Waiter!”
The supper, which appeared with wonderful celerity, more than came up to Gillian’s wildest dreams. She met all the wonderful articles of food which she had hitherto only known in books—ortolans, prawns in aspic, truffles. Dick was the most hospitable of hosts, Mademoiselle de Monti was charming, Rupert-George as cheery and friendly as he had shown himself ever since the meeting in the train.
There was nothing tangible to spoil the feast, and yet it was spoilt by a horrid inexplicable sense of something overhanging. Gillian thought that it was partly accounted for by the fact that though Mademoiselle de Monti talked and smiled with the rest and was especially kind to the English schoolgirl, her beautiful eyes wore a slightly strained expression all the time, and she was very white.
No further allusion was made to the quarrel with Captain von Posen; it almost seemed as though it were forgotten. Gill wondered whether the Prussian had been apologising when he and Rupert-George stood together at the door for that moment; he did not seem to be the sort of person who would apologise, and yet he had been so hopelessly in the wrong.
Gill thought a good deal over the whole inexplicable business at intervals during the making of a supper which made amends for the dinner she had missed, and she was still puzzling when the meal was at last ended, and she and Mademoiselle de Monti drew on their light cloaks and went across the wide vestibule towards the door.
Dick had gone ahead to see if the car were ready Rupert-George, emerging from some room where coats were kept, passed the two girls with a laughing comment, and went up to the boy, speaking to him quickly.
Dick nodded, and Mademoiselle de Monti’s eyes grew more anxious:
“Wait for me one moment, Gillian. There is something I must say to Captain Cartaret,” she said.
Estinotti’s was emptying fast, for it was late. The party of four had lingered over their supper, and the great supper-room had its size only dotted with little islands of still occupied tables when they came out.
Now, as she stood waiting for Mademoiselle de Monti, it seemed to Gill that all the people they had left were streaming by her. She felt herself rather in the way, and was conscious of more than one inquisitive stare at the girl alone. She wished that Mademoiselle de Monti would come back, and moved a little more into the centre of the vestibule to see if she were nearly ready, and promptly trod upon a priceless lace scarf, which a stout comfortable-looking German lady was allowing to trail.
Gillian apologised in indifferent German—it is extraordinarily difficult to apologise in any other language or to any other nationality but your own—and the lady passed on, looking stony and pointedly examining the extent of the damage.
; Gillian gave up looking for Mademoiselle de Monti and retired to a door, against which she leaned, watching the crowd.
It was thinning fast—in another minute or two someone must come for her, for Estinotti’s would be closed.
Now that the people were so few Gill could see her friend without moving from her position. Mademoiselle de Monti and Captain Cartaret were standing by a pillar near the outer door, talking as absorbedly as they had talked earlier in the evening, when they had so vexed Dick. Now he was with them, and joining eagerly in the conversation, Gill could tell.
What could they be talking about? Something very interesting, that was certain—perhaps the incident in the opera-house, only then why should Gill be left out of it, as she had been there and seen it all?
Gillian could not help wishing that she were not compelled to wait, propping a self that seemed to have suddenly become too tired to stand, against a door; outside everything. Of course she could not expect these attendants of the Grand-Duchess to take a schoolgirl into their confidence on all occasions, as they would have done if she had been the heroine of a book; but she had been in so much already, and she worshipped Carina.
Gill propped herself a little more firmly against the door, wishing for a chair (there were none in the vestibule) and also, most acutely and foolishly, that Mademoiselle de Monti would look round and beckon her to come and stand with them, as though she too were one of Carina’s loyal friends.
Nobody beckoned, but something else happened; something that is rather apt to happen if you lean against a door meant for the purpose of passing in and out of a room.
Gillian’s door (she was really behaving as though it were her private belonging) opened quickly from inside, and Gillian, taken unawares, fell backward into the room.
Poor Gill, it was a dreadful moment. She was not hurt, she thought it would have almost been better if she were. For the room into which she had come so unceremoniously was full of men, who seemed to have retired there for a quiet little smoke and talk. She could not very well have done anything more hopeless, she thought ruefully, if she had tried her hardest for a week.
She scrambled to her feet, her face very hot. Was there ever anybody so unlucky in the world? For the second time that evening she began the difficult task of framing a German apology, and then, in the words of a story-book, “the words died on her lips.” She was too utterly taken aback to go on talking. For they were not altogether strangers who sat smoking and staring at her.
One of the gentlemen was the Baron von Eckart, whom she had believed to be back in Berlin; another was her host, the Baron von Traume.
The third familiar face was that of the Italian waiter who had been serving at their table so quickly and so deftly half an hour before. Like the others in the room the waiter was smoking a thick dark cigar, and through all Gillian’s horrified dismay at her intrusion it did strike her as very odd that a waiter in attendance, even in the smoking-room, should be engaged in smoking.
Berta’s father spoke to her before she had time to collect her thoughts.
“What were you doing?”
As the floor had not been obliging enough to open and swallow her, Gillian had to try and explain. Everybody listened to her with a curiously intent interest, and quite without interruption. Indeed the only interruption came from outside in the shape of a call from Mademoiselle de Monti.
“Gillian, where are you?”
“Return to your friends,” the Baron ordered coldly, “and pray do not ever let it be known that you entered a smoking-room even by accident. I shall certainly not mention the matter to my wife; it might never be forgotten.”
Gillian was only too thankful to escape, with a muttered “Thank you.” The sense that she had done something outside the pale had been upon her before; it was more strongly than ever upon her now, and she was really grateful to the Baron for promising to conceal her scrape. He was bad enough about it, but the Baroness would be a hundred times worse. Gill thought of the stony eyes and the cold voice, and felt that she could not have stood the Baroness.
She hurried out of the smoking-room, feeling, poor child! as though she had utterly disgraced herself, and wishing with all her heart that she had never come to Estinotti’s.
There was to come a time, not so far distant, when she changed her mind upon that matter.
CHAPTER XIII
What Berta Told
Gillian woke very early next morning, after a night of horrid dreams, to the reality of a most appalling headache. Probably the long fast of the evening before, together with all the excitement, was mainly responsible for it, but she did not think of that, and wondered dismally if she were sickening for any of the illnesses that begin with headache, and if so whether she would be cast into a German hospital.
She made a valiant attempt at sitting up, but was too dizzy, and had to lie down again and wait for Marie.
Marie arrived with the coffee, looking bright and cheerful as usual, but exclaimed with much concern at the sight of Gillian’s face.
“Mademoiselle is ill?”
“I’ve got a dreadful headache,” poor Gill explained. “Do you think you could tell Fräulein Berta about it, and ask her if she minds working a little later this morning? I shall be all right presently, I expect.”
Things were certainly better after Marie came. She persuaded Gillian to drink a little of the hot coffee, holding the cup to her lips so that she should not need to lift her head; she bathed her forehead with eau-de-Cologne and water; she supported her gently while turning a pillow that seemed to have become red-hot, and finally drew down the blind, leaving her to try to sleep off the pain, and promising that “Mademoiselle Berta should know that the English Mademoiselle was not well.”
“Where did you learn to be so awfully good at nursing?” Gill asked gratefully.
“Tienette is often ill,” the girl said, “and it is my joy to take care of her. Mademoiselle would figure that easily to herself if only she could see Tienette.”
“I should like to ever so much one day. I suppose you couldn’t take me to her?” Gill asked.
Marie’s voice sounded pleased. “But easily, Mademoiselle. I have already informed my father and my dear Tienette of the coming of the English Mademoiselle, and they have much interest in her. There would be the warmest of welcomes for Mademoiselle at No. 3 in La Petite Rue des Carillons, whenever she should choose to honour us.”
“I should like to go very much,” Gill repeated. “What a queer name your street has! I didn’t notice it when we were out this morning, nor when I drove from the Palace.”
“Mademoiselle would not see it,” Marie told her. “It is an oh! so little street, in the shadow of the Cathedral. When the bells ring all the houses rock. Some do not like it, Mademoiselle, but we—we have grown up to it, and my father is a ringer. But I talk too much and fatigue Mademoiselle, who must sleep.”
Poor Gillian felt as though sleep were a hopeless distance off just then, though at least the hospital had receded to a distance since Marie took her case in hand. But her head throbbed sickeningly; she heard every noise in the house and street with acute intensity, and, what was worse, her mind quite refused to follow the example of her body and lie still.
Everything which had happened last night, from the odd discovery of the Baroness in her bedroom to the odder discovery of the two Barons in the smoking-room at Estinotti’s, seemed to assume enormous and terrifying proportions, which were none the less unpleasant because they loomed through a fog of absolute bewilderment.
She was not asleep when Berta came to her an hour later, a Berta who was in an even more self-righteous state than usual.
“So you are sick?” she remarked, without the more usual prefix on such occasions—I am sorry. “Much supper at Estinotti’s makes the sickness frequently.”
Gillian was past resenting this imputation just then; if Berta chose to think she had been over-eating, well, she must be left to think it. Besides, she wanted her to go away, an
d people don’t go away as a rule if you begin to argue. Gillian wisely lay still with closed eyes.
But Berta had no intention of going just yet; that was certain. She sat down in the chair by Gillian’s bedside, with every appearance of staying.
There was a silence, only broken by the creakings of Berta’s chair, which sounded as though it were longing for conversation. Gill wondered whether Berta was in the same condition; if so she had better get it over and done with as soon as possible.
“I’m sorry to be so fearfully stupid,” she apologised. “Did you … did you want me for anything?”
“I want nothing,” Berta answered primly, and there was another silence.
“It is said that in the opera-house last night was never such a crush.” Berta broke the silence with that remark at last.
“Really,” Gill answered, without interest, and then it suddenly dawned upon her that Berta must have heard at least something of what had taken place at the opera-house. Only why did she make silly remarks about the fullness of the theatre when she was probably longing to ask how many of the wild rumours going about were true?
“Well, if she can’t ask properly she may just do without knowing,” Gill thought to herself. Of course, not even Berta could approve of Prince Waldemar’s disgraceful behaviour, but Gillian did not feel as though she would be capable of sympathising with her own fiery indignation; and anyhow, hints and round-about questions were not worth attention.
“It is said that this morning all the world …”
“Is talking? I daresay,” Gill finished the sentence for the German girl, and in no very amiable tone of voice. A violent headache does not make for overmuch patience. How much longer did Berta intend to stay there in her room, dropping remarks like stones into the silence? Gill knew, now she came to think about it, that she positively disliked Berta already, and this was only the beginning of the seven weeks’ companionship that must be endured.
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