XIX Confidences
As I walked through the corridor considerably concerned over the statements made to us by this east-side Princess and seriously disturbed by finding myself in the very vortex of this whirlpool of intrigue which every moment seemed to spew up from its dizzying depths new plots and counter-plots, I almost ran into the ex-Queen of Greece.
She was in curl-papers and negligee, standing just outside her door, an electric torch in one hand, a pistol in the other.
“Madame!” I exclaimed, “what in the world is the matter?”
“I don’t like this inn,” she said. “I consider it a suspicious place.”
“Madame!”
“What do I know about your inn?” she demanded insolently, “or about you, either?”
“Madame!”
“You say you are a Chilean. You don’t look it. Neither does your friend resemble a Norwegian. If you desire to know my opinion you both look like Yankees!”
“Madame, this is intolerable——”
“Possibly,” she interrupted, staring at me out of chilly eyes that fairly glittered. “Possibly, too, I am mistaken. Perhaps your servants, also, unduly arouse suspicion—your pretty housekeeper may really be your housekeeper. The waitress, too, may be a real waitress. This is all quite possible, Monsieur. But I prefer to be prepared for any eventuality in this tavern!”
And she went into her room and shut the door.
The ex-queen’s insolence upset me. I was possessed by a furious desire to turn them all out of doors. The prospect of living in the same house with these people for days—perhaps for weeks, seemed unbearable. Surely there must be some way out of the valley!
Down stairs I saw Raoul coming from the front courtyard leading two strange horses attached to a sort of carryall.
“Where on earth did you discover that rig?” I called out to him in the starlight.
“Two guests have just arrived,” he replied, laughing.
I hurried out to where he stood.
“Guests!” I repeated. “Where did they come from? Isn’t the pass closed?”
“Sealed tight, Monsieur O’Ryan. But when the avalanche fell this vehicle and its passengers were just far enough inside the pass to be caught.
“I understand they’ve been digging themselves out of the snow all this time. They’ve just arrived and are in the long hall asking for accommodations.”
“Who are they?” I demanded in utter disgust; “more huns?”
“One is a Turkish gentleman,” he said. “The other is the driver. I will take care of him. The Turkish traveler’s name is Eddin Bey, and he says he’s a friend of Admiral Lauterlaus.”
I went into the house and discovered Eddin Bey entering his signature on the ledger while Clelia with keys and candle waited beside him to show him to his quarters.
“Ah!” he exclaimed cordially when I named myself, offering his dark, nervous hand, “I am inexpressibly happy to have the privilege, Monsieur O’Ryan! A narrow escape for us, I assure you!—that mountain of snow roaring down on us and our horses whipped to a gallop! Not gay—eh? No, sir! And I thought we’d never dig out the horses and our wagon and luggage!”
I replied politely and suitably, and Clelia presently piloted this dark, lean, vivacious young man to his quarters across the corridor from General von Dungheim.
When she returned her flushed, set features arrested my attention. “Did that Turk annoy you, Clelia?” I asked sharply.
She shrugged: “Tavern gallantry,” she replied briefly: “men of that sort are prone to it.”
I said: “If any of these people annoy you and Thusis come to me at once.”
She laughed: “Dear Monsieur O’Ryan,” she said, “Thusis and I know how to take care of ourselves.” She came nearer, looking up at me out of her lovely, friendly eyes:
“Thusis is in her room. It isn’t very proper, of course, but she is waiting for you. Will you go?”
“Yes.”
Clelia laid one hand lightly on my arm, and her smile became wistful and troubled:
“You do care for my sister, don’t you?”
“I am deeply in love with her.”
“I was afraid so.”
“Afraid?”
“Oh, I don’t know how Thusis is going to behave,—how she is going to take it!” said Clelia in frank anxiety. “Never before has she cared for any man; and I don’t know what she’s going to do about you—indeed I don’t, Mr. O’Ryan!”
“Could you tell me,” said I bluntly, “what obstacles stand in the way of my marrying your sister?”
“Thusis should tell you.”
“She isn’t already married?”
“Good Heavens, no!”
“Is it a matter of religion?”
“Thusis must tell you. I could not speak for her,—interfere with her. My sister will act for herself—assume all responsibility for whatever she chooses to do.... As I do.”
I took Clelia’s soft hands in mine and looked earnestly into her face:
“You, also, care for a man; don’t you?”
She bent her head in wordless assent.
“What are you going to do about it, Clelia?”
“Whatever he wishes.”
“Marry him?”
“If he wishes.”
“You are an astounding girl!”
“I am an astounded girl. I never supposed I should take such a view of life, of its obligations, of my own position in the world.... Lately, in the probable imminence of sudden death, I became a little reckless—perhaps excited—willing to learn in these brief hours the more innocent elements of love—curious to experience even the least real of its mysteries—to play coquette in the pretty comedy—even with you——”
She gave me a vague smile and slowly shook her head.
“All the while,” she said, “I was in love with him. I didn’t know it because I didn’t know him. When I felt frivolous and wished to laugh he was serious. His solemnity stirred me to audacity; and when I said a lot of silly things I didn’t mean he preached at me; and I bullied him and was impudent and showed my contempt for a man who would endure such tyranny.... That is how it began.... And all the while, not knowing it, I was falling more completely in love. Isn’t it odd?”
She smiled, pressed my hands, shook her head as though at a loss to account for her behavior.
“The first hint of it I had,” she said, “was when he coolly warned me that he would thwart me. And I looked into his eyes and knew him for the first time—knew him to be the stronger, the wiser, the more capable,—and the more powerful.
“And I realized, all in a moment, that he had endured my contempt and tyranny merely because he chose to; that he was a real man, in cool possession of his own destiny; that, if he chose, he could clear his mind of me, and presently his heart; that I was not essential to him, not necessary; that, indeed, unless I instantly took myself in hand and made an effort to measure up to him, he’d turn from me,—quite courteously—and go his own way with a kindly indifference which suddenly seemed terrifying to me.... And I loved him.... And let him know.... And that is how it happened with me.”
After a long pause: “What would happen,” I inquired, “if I tried that sort of thing on Thusis?”
Clelia shook her head: “Thusis and I are different. I don’t wish to be a martyr.”
“Does Thusis?”
“I’m rather afraid she is inclined that way. Of course we both were quite willing to suffer physical martyrdom if we failed to carry off these wretched kings. That is a different kind of martyrdom—a shot in the brain, a knife thrust—perhaps a brutish supplice from the boche——” She shrugged her shoulders. “We were not afraid,” she added. “But when another sort of death suddenly confronted me—the death of love in him I loved—I had no courage—none at all. You see I am not the stuff of which martyrs are fashioned, Mr. O’Ryan.”
“Is Thusis?”
“Alas!”
“She prefers to suffer?”
“I am afraid she will become a martyr to a pride which interprets for her the old, outworn doggerel of ages dead.... I can’t repeat it to you.”
“Noblesse oblige?”
“That phrase occurs in it.”
“Oh.... So Thusis, caring for me, will send me away,” I said.
“I cannot answer you.”
“Can you advise me, Clelia?”
She looked up at me; tears sprang to her eyes; she pressed my hands, but shook her head.