CHAPTER VIII
Topham and Rutile met at dinner that night, but neither touched on the subject that lay nearest the navy officer’s heart. Topham was slow to tell his feelings at any time, and in this particular instance he wanted to think a little more before he made a confidant of any one. Rutile, on the other hand, did not care to attempt to force the other’s confidence. So they talked the meal through on indifferent topics.
Dinner over, Rutile excused himself. “I’m awfully sorry, old man,” he said. “But I find I can’t be with you until late tonight. I’ve got about three hours of work that must be done, even if the heavens fall. I hate to leave you on your only night here, but—”
“Nonsense. That’s all right! I know what orders are. I’ll make out. I—well, I’ve got to think something out, myself, and I’ll be glad of the chance. Just tell me where I can go and moon about—”
“Why not go out to the Thiergarten? The bandwill be playing and everybody will be there, but you can be as lonely as you please, if you please. Stay there a few hours and then show up at the embassy about eleven or twelve o’clock and we’ll have a talk or go out and paint the town, whichever you like. Berlin isn’t Paris, but it doesn’t go to bed by curfew law, either.”
“Thank you! I’ll do as you say. But I don’t care to incarnadine anything. How do I get to this Thiergarten place?”
Rutile told him and an hour later Topham was walking along the spacious roadways of the park, thinking of nearly everything but his surroundings.
He was twenty-five, clean-shaven, Gibsonesque, with the erect carriage that bespeaks military training. As he moved slowly through the crowd, many halted for a second and glanced at him before turning to the next corner in the kaleidoscopic throng. Two looks are the best compliment a stranger can pay; a single glance asserts insignificance, and three glances argue peculiarity. Walter Topham was neither insignificant nor peculiar.
But though many looked at Topham, he looked at nobody. The fair face of the Countess Elsawas ever before his mind’s eye, filling it to the exclusion of all else. How could he live for a whole year without seeing her? How could he accept her orders as final? Yet what could he do? What could he do? He had been glad to get away from Rutile and that he might once more ask himself the question.
At the edge of the garden he paused and stared unseeingly down the long avenue stretched before him, hesitating whether or not to turn back. He cared little for his surroundings. Wherever he was, he saw only the brilliant tints of this Brazilian countess who wanted to become a German duchess.
Abruptly his mood changed; he wanted human companionship; and he faced back into the garden, vaguely wondering whether in its merry-making throngs he could find the escape from his own thoughts he craved.
The scene was a charming one. Beneath the radiant gaslights moved a vivid kaleidoscope of uniforms and gowns. Faces, now sternly handsome, now softly beautiful, flashed out and then disappeared. The animal houses, built after the fashion of the countries whence their occupants came, showed here and there through the trees—nowan elephant house from India and next a pagoda filled with bright-colored Japanese birds. To Topham’s ears as the music hushed, came the sound of gay laughter and happy song, mingled with the tinkling of glasses from the little tables beneath the trees. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers or perhaps with perfume shaken from the gowns of the women. The Berliners were making merry in the hearty whole-souled German way that forgets the toils of the day the moment they are over and recalls them only when the time comes to resume them.
Insensibly the spirit of the place calmed the American. “We’ve nothing like this at home,” he mused, “More’s the pity. We’re too feverish, too anxious to finish, so as to be able to start again. Will we ever really finish, I wonder? Is it our climate or is it merely a passing phase of our character? We seem to drop out of it readily enough when we come over here. I don’t suppose there is a soul in all this crowd that is thinking of anything except the pleasure of the moment.”
He rested his hand on the back of a vacant chair and stared at the crowd. Hundreds of people were passing him every minute, but he knew none of them. He could not hope to see the countess,of course, and he cared little for any one else.
The fates, however, were propitious. Scarcely had he begun to watch, when he heard his name called. He looked up and smiled. It was Herrman Ferreira—he who had shared his compartment on the train, he whom he had come to identify with the Count del Ouro Preto. That is to say, it was the brother of his charmer—if not the rose it was the nearest thorn.
“Ah Herr Topham! Well found, my friend. You have quite recovered from the affair on the train?”
“Oh! Quite! And you?”
“But yes! I hope you have suffered no inconvenience from the loss of your papers?” The Brazilian’s tones were light, but Topham thought he read a note of anxiety in them.
“Very little,” he replied. “They were only of sentimental value, Count!”
“Count!” The other smiled. “Ah! Ha! You know. My good friend Rutile has told you? Yes! I am count. But I seldom use the title. I fly higher. Perhaps you have heard.”
Topham nodded, and the Brazilian rattled on. “Boni!” he exclaimed. “I have good news. Comeand rejoice with me. As you Americans say, come and smile with me.” He caught Walter by the arm and drew him down the walk to the tables beneath the trees.
Topham went willingly enough. Despite the warning of the Gazette correspondent, he rather liked Ouro Preto. Besides, he was the brother of the Countess Elsa.
Ouro Preto picked out a table and beckoned to a waiter. “What will you have, my friend,” he demanded, as he dropped into his chair. “The gin-rickey or the horse’s-neck or the mint-julep of America; the wine of France; or the beer of Germany?”
“Anything, so long as it’s beer,” returned Topham, lightly. “But, Count, what’s your good news?”
“The best ever. You know what it is I want in Berlin? Yes? Well, the Emperor will see me tomorrow at ten.”
Walter caught up the stein which the swift-footed waiter had placed before him. “Congratulations!” he cried, and gulped the beer.
Ouro Preto nodded. His eyes were bright with excitement, and his dark cheeks burned with color. “That argues much, eh? friend Topham?” hequestioned. “Wilhelm does not see a man in private audience unless he has something to say to him. If he meant to refuse, he could do so by proxy. That he consents to see me means—means—well, I scarcely dare guess what it may mean.”
Walter played with his stein. “I’m not familiar with the Emperor’s ways,” he observed, “But to be received in private audience seems a mighty good augury.”
Ouro Preto sipped his beer slowly. “It’s great,” he cried. “It must mean something. And yet you can never tell. Obstacles arise out of nothing. There are so many interlocking interests over here. One touches a Frenchman and a Russian suddenly springs up in his way. One whispers a secret to an Italian, and the next day an Englishman greets him with it. You Americans are happy to stand aside from all this. As the great Washington said, you have no entangling alliances. You need no diplomacy. But here—here every man must be a diplomat and must intrigue. It is of a necessity.”
The Brazilian raised his stick and beckoned again to the waiter. “Zwei bier,” he ordered. While he waited, he gazed round at the near-bytables, scanning their occupants one by one, as if to single out any who might be watching.
Those at the tables were sufficiently diverse. At one table a couple of Englishmen were drinking gin; at another the members of a party, conspicuously American, were laughing guiltily as they tasted unaccustomed wine; beyond two or three Italians were making a tremendous noise over a bottle of vin ordinaire; close at hand an unescorted lady, apparently French, was sipping a glass of champagne.
The count seemed satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, for he turned to Topham with a smile. “Only the usual set,” he observed, “At least, so far as I can see. Probably I alarm myself needlessly. So far as I know, it is to no one’s interest to oppose me. You can think of no one, eh! my friend?”
“I?” Topham stared at the man in surprise. “Of course not. I didn’t know till today what you were after; and certainly I have never heard anyone suggest any opposition. Why should they?”
The Brazilian laughed. “Why should they, indeed?” he answered, lightly. He broke off, and Topham saw that he was watching some one.
The swish of a skirt just behind his chair and a faint perfume that stole upon his senses warned the American not to look around too suddenly. When he did manage to turn with sufficient casualness, he saw two ladies and a gentleman taking their seats at a vacant table a few feet away. The man’s face was toward him and he recognized him at once. The girls’ backs were turned, but something familiar in the pose of one of them set his heart to thumping.
Ouro Preto leaned forward, excitedly. “Do you know who they are?” he demanded. “The ladies, I mean. I know the ambassador, of course, though only by sight.”
Topham nodded. “I know one of them,” he declared. “One is Lord Maxwell’s daughter. The other—”
But the Brazilian was not listening. “Did you see her face?” he questioned. “Hers! The one to the right. She’s a wonderful creature! Dios! Topham! I must meet her!”
Topham was still staring at the back of the girl who seemed familiar. Surely it could not be—and yet—
She wore a wide basket hat, from beneath which little yellow tendrils tumbled, shining red goldagainst her slender white neck. Topham was sure he had seen those curls against that neck before. The delicate poise of her head, too, was familiar. If she would only turn her head a trifle—She did it, and Topham rose quickly to his feet. “Lillian!” he gasped.
Ouro Preto’s voice reached his ear. “Do you know her?” he asked. “Can you present me?”
Topham nodded. “Certainly! If she will give me permission,” he answered. “Please excuse me while I recall myself to her.”