The Puppet Crown [42]
me the lounge? And the deuce take the duchess, who is probably a woman with a high forehead and a pair of narrow eyes!" He threw down his napkin and made for the lounge, without giving any particular attention to the smile and frown which were struggling in the Englishman's eyes. In less than a minute Maurice was dozing.
Fitzgerald thought that the best thing he could do was to follow the philosophical example of his friend. "These Americans," he mused, as he arranged the pillow under his ear, "are `fifteen puzzles'; you can move them, or you can't."
As for Maurice, he was already dreaming; he was too tired to sleep. Presently he thought he was on a horse again, and was galloping, galloping. He was heading his old company to the very fringe of the alkali. The Apaches had robbed the pay train and killed six men, and the very deuce was to pay all around. . . . Again he was swimming, and a beautiful girl reached out a hand and saved him. Ah! how beautiful she was, how soft and rich the deep brown of her eyes! . . . The scene shifted. The president of the South American republic had accepted his sword (unbeknown to the United States authorities), and he was aiding to quell the insurrection. And just then some one whispered to him that gold would rise fifty points. And as he put out his hands to gather in the glittering coins which were raining down, the face of Colonel Beauvais loomed up, scowling and furious. . . . And yet again came the beautiful girl. He was holding her hand and the archbishop had his spread out in benediction over their heads. . . . A hand, which was not of dreamland, shook him by the arm. He opened his eyes. Fitzgerald was standing over him. The light of the sun spangled the walls opposite the windows. The clock marked the eleventh hour of day.
"Hang you!" he said, with blinking eyes; "why didn't you let me be? I was just marrying the princess, and you've spoiled it all. I--" He jumped to his feet and rubbed his eyes, and, forgetful of all save his astonishment, pursed his lips into a low whistle.
CHAPTER IX
NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY
Standing just within the door, smiling and rubbing the gray bristles on his lip, was the Colonel. In the center of the room stood a woman dressed in gray. Maurice recognized the dress; it belonged to Mademoiselle of the Veil, who was now sans veil, sans hat. A marvelous face was revealed to Maurice, a face of that peculiar beauty which poets and artists are often minded to deny, but for the love of which men die, become great or terrible, overturn empires and change the map of the world.
Her luxuriant hair, which lay in careless masses about the shapely head and intelligent brow, was a mixture of red and brown and gold, a variety which never ceases to charm; skin the pallor of ancient marble, with the shadow of rose lying below the eyes, the large, gray chatoyant eyes, which answered every impulse of the brain which ruled them. The irregularity of her features was never noticeable after a glance into those eyes. At this moment both eyes and lips expressed a shade of amusement.
Maurice, who was astonished never more than a minute at a time, immediately recovered. His toilet was somewhat disarranged, and the back of his head a crow's nest, but, nevertheless, he placed a hand over his heart and offered a low obeisance.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she said, in a voice which Maurice would have known anywhere. "I hope the journey has caused you no particular annoyance."
"The annoyance was not so particular, Madame," said Fitzgerald stiffly, "as it was general."
"And four of my troopers will take oath to that!" interjected the Colonel.
"Will Madame permit me to ask when will the opera begin?" asked Maurice.
"I am glad," said she, "that you have lost none of your freshness."
Maurice was struck for a moment, but soon saw that the remark was innocent of any inelegance of speech. Fitzgerald was gnawing his mustache and looking out of the corner of his eyes--into hers.
Fitzgerald thought that the best thing he could do was to follow the philosophical example of his friend. "These Americans," he mused, as he arranged the pillow under his ear, "are `fifteen puzzles'; you can move them, or you can't."
As for Maurice, he was already dreaming; he was too tired to sleep. Presently he thought he was on a horse again, and was galloping, galloping. He was heading his old company to the very fringe of the alkali. The Apaches had robbed the pay train and killed six men, and the very deuce was to pay all around. . . . Again he was swimming, and a beautiful girl reached out a hand and saved him. Ah! how beautiful she was, how soft and rich the deep brown of her eyes! . . . The scene shifted. The president of the South American republic had accepted his sword (unbeknown to the United States authorities), and he was aiding to quell the insurrection. And just then some one whispered to him that gold would rise fifty points. And as he put out his hands to gather in the glittering coins which were raining down, the face of Colonel Beauvais loomed up, scowling and furious. . . . And yet again came the beautiful girl. He was holding her hand and the archbishop had his spread out in benediction over their heads. . . . A hand, which was not of dreamland, shook him by the arm. He opened his eyes. Fitzgerald was standing over him. The light of the sun spangled the walls opposite the windows. The clock marked the eleventh hour of day.
"Hang you!" he said, with blinking eyes; "why didn't you let me be? I was just marrying the princess, and you've spoiled it all. I--" He jumped to his feet and rubbed his eyes, and, forgetful of all save his astonishment, pursed his lips into a low whistle.
CHAPTER IX
NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY
Standing just within the door, smiling and rubbing the gray bristles on his lip, was the Colonel. In the center of the room stood a woman dressed in gray. Maurice recognized the dress; it belonged to Mademoiselle of the Veil, who was now sans veil, sans hat. A marvelous face was revealed to Maurice, a face of that peculiar beauty which poets and artists are often minded to deny, but for the love of which men die, become great or terrible, overturn empires and change the map of the world.
Her luxuriant hair, which lay in careless masses about the shapely head and intelligent brow, was a mixture of red and brown and gold, a variety which never ceases to charm; skin the pallor of ancient marble, with the shadow of rose lying below the eyes, the large, gray chatoyant eyes, which answered every impulse of the brain which ruled them. The irregularity of her features was never noticeable after a glance into those eyes. At this moment both eyes and lips expressed a shade of amusement.
Maurice, who was astonished never more than a minute at a time, immediately recovered. His toilet was somewhat disarranged, and the back of his head a crow's nest, but, nevertheless, he placed a hand over his heart and offered a low obeisance.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she said, in a voice which Maurice would have known anywhere. "I hope the journey has caused you no particular annoyance."
"The annoyance was not so particular, Madame," said Fitzgerald stiffly, "as it was general."
"And four of my troopers will take oath to that!" interjected the Colonel.
"Will Madame permit me to ask when will the opera begin?" asked Maurice.
"I am glad," said she, "that you have lost none of your freshness."
Maurice was struck for a moment, but soon saw that the remark was innocent of any inelegance of speech. Fitzgerald was gnawing his mustache and looking out of the corner of his eyes--into hers.