The Puppet Crown [47]
the Philistines. Madame the countess was beating me down with her eyes, and I did not think."
"I was not even looking at you!" declared the countess, blushing.
The incident was soon forgotten; and at length Madame and the countess rose.
Said the first: "We will leave you gentlemen to your cigars; and when they have ceased to interest you, you will find us in the music room."
"And you will sing?" said Maurice to the countess.
"If you wish." She was almost beautiful when she smiled, and she smiled on Maurice.
"I confess," said he, "that being a prisoner, under certain circumstances, is a fine life."
"What wicked eyes he has," said the countess, as she and Madame entered the music room.
"Do not look into them too often, my dear," was the rejoinder. "I have asked not other sacrifice than that you should occupy his attention and make him fall in love with you."
"Ah, Madame, that will be easy enough. But what is to prevent me from falling in love with him? He is very handsome."
"You are laughing!"
"Yes, I am laughing. It will be such an amusing adventure, a souvenir for my old age--and may my old age forget me."
The men lit their cigars and smoked in silence.
"Colonel," said Maurice at last, "will you kindly tell me what all this means?"
"Never ask your host how old his wine is. If he is proud of it, he will tell you." He blew the smoke under the candle shades and watched it as it darted upward. "Don't you find it comfortable? I should."
"Conscience will not lie down at one's bidding."
"I understood that you were a diplomat?" The Colonel turned to Fitzgerald. "I hope that, when you are liberated, you will forget the manner in which you were brought here."
"I shall forget nothing," curtly.
"The devil! I can not fight you; I am too old."
Fitzgerald said nothing, and continued to play with his emptied wine-glass.
"The Princess Alexia," went on the Colonel, "has a bulldog. I have always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog was. The bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an Englishman."
This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence. The Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of Maurice were anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was contemplating them both, shrewdly.
"Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine."
The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood before the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In the center of the room was a table littered with books, magazines and illustrated weeklies.
"Do you play chess, Monsieur?" said Madame to Fitzgerald.
"I do not."
"Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done."
Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He followed every move she made because he had never seen till now so round and shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped with pink filbert nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as might be. He, like Maurice, was pondering over the unusual position in which he found himself; but analysis of any sort was not his forte; so he soon forgot all save the delicate curve of Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple of her laughter, the abysmal gray of her eyes.
"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the countess, "what shall I sing to you?"
"To me?" said Maurice. "Something from Abt."
Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice rose in song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of the window into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed the curtain of darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her head and looked at him. It was not only a handsome face she saw, but one that carried the mark of refinement. . . . Maurice was thinking of the lonely princess and her grave dark eyes. He possessed none of that power from which princes derive benefits; what could he do? And why should he interest himself in a woman who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even a friend? He smiled.
"I was not even looking at you!" declared the countess, blushing.
The incident was soon forgotten; and at length Madame and the countess rose.
Said the first: "We will leave you gentlemen to your cigars; and when they have ceased to interest you, you will find us in the music room."
"And you will sing?" said Maurice to the countess.
"If you wish." She was almost beautiful when she smiled, and she smiled on Maurice.
"I confess," said he, "that being a prisoner, under certain circumstances, is a fine life."
"What wicked eyes he has," said the countess, as she and Madame entered the music room.
"Do not look into them too often, my dear," was the rejoinder. "I have asked not other sacrifice than that you should occupy his attention and make him fall in love with you."
"Ah, Madame, that will be easy enough. But what is to prevent me from falling in love with him? He is very handsome."
"You are laughing!"
"Yes, I am laughing. It will be such an amusing adventure, a souvenir for my old age--and may my old age forget me."
The men lit their cigars and smoked in silence.
"Colonel," said Maurice at last, "will you kindly tell me what all this means?"
"Never ask your host how old his wine is. If he is proud of it, he will tell you." He blew the smoke under the candle shades and watched it as it darted upward. "Don't you find it comfortable? I should."
"Conscience will not lie down at one's bidding."
"I understood that you were a diplomat?" The Colonel turned to Fitzgerald. "I hope that, when you are liberated, you will forget the manner in which you were brought here."
"I shall forget nothing," curtly.
"The devil! I can not fight you; I am too old."
Fitzgerald said nothing, and continued to play with his emptied wine-glass.
"The Princess Alexia," went on the Colonel, "has a bulldog. I have always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog was. The bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an Englishman."
This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence. The Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of Maurice were anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was contemplating them both, shrewdly.
"Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine."
The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood before the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In the center of the room was a table littered with books, magazines and illustrated weeklies.
"Do you play chess, Monsieur?" said Madame to Fitzgerald.
"I do not."
"Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done."
Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He followed every move she made because he had never seen till now so round and shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped with pink filbert nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as might be. He, like Maurice, was pondering over the unusual position in which he found himself; but analysis of any sort was not his forte; so he soon forgot all save the delicate curve of Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple of her laughter, the abysmal gray of her eyes.
"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the countess, "what shall I sing to you?"
"To me?" said Maurice. "Something from Abt."
Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice rose in song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of the window into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed the curtain of darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her head and looked at him. It was not only a handsome face she saw, but one that carried the mark of refinement. . . . Maurice was thinking of the lonely princess and her grave dark eyes. He possessed none of that power from which princes derive benefits; what could he do? And why should he interest himself in a woman who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even a friend? He smiled.