MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL
The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who, lonely and restless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of innocent amusement.He was none the worse for his unintended bath; indeed, if anything, he was much the better for it.His imagination was excited.It was not every day that a man could, at one and the same time, fall out of a boat and into the presence of a princess of royal blood.
He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two utterances recurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration like the bouquet of old wine.He had told her that she was beautiful, indirectly, it was true; she had accepted his friendship, also indirectly, it was true.Now the logical sequence of all this was--but he broke into a light laugh.What little vanity he possessed was without conceit.Princesses of royal blood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and besides, she was to be married on the twentieth of the month.
He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion.It was a charming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope of gowns and uniforms.Beautiful faces flashed past him.There were in the air the vague essences of violet, rose and heliotrope.Sometimes he caught the echo of low laughter or the snatch of a gay song.The light of the lamps shot out on the crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of quivering flame, which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and afar twinkled the dipping oars.The brilliant pavilion, which rested partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.
The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and Maurice yielded to the spell of the romantic music.He leaned over the pavilion rail, and out of the blackness below he endeavored to conjure up the face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who had danced with him at the embassies in Vienna, fenced and ridden with him, till--till-- with a gesture of impatience he flung away the end of his cigar.
Memory was altogether too elusive.It was neither Nell nor Kate he saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the Princess Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose lips were as red as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice was sweeter than that throbbing up from the 'cello.If he thought much more of her, there would be a logical sequence on his side.He laughed again--with an effort--and settled back in his chair to renew his interest in the panorama revolving around him.
"They certainly know how to live in these countries," he thought, "for all their comic operas.All I need, to have this fairy scene made complete, is a woman to talk to.By George, what's to hinder me from finding one?" he added, seized by the spirit of mischief.He turned his head this way and that."Ah! doubtless there is the one I'm looking for."Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray.
Her back was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful contours of her figure.She wore a gray alpine hat, below the rim of which rebellious little curls escaped, curls of a fine red-brown, which, as they trailed to the nape of the firm white neck, lightened into a ruddy gold.Her delicate head was turned aside, and to all appearances her gaze was directed to the entrance to the pavilion.A heavy blue veil completely obscured her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear and the shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much.To a man there is always a mystery lurking behind a veil.So he rose, walked past her, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair opposite to hers.The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd did not disturb him.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said, politely lifting his hat.
She straightened haughtily."Monsieur," she said, resentment, consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her tones, "I did not give you permission to sit down.You are impertinent!""O, no," Maurice declared."I am not impertinent.I am lonesome.
In all Bleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel waiters, and they are uninteresting.Grant me the privilege of conversing with you for a moment.We shall never meet again; and I should not know you if we did.Whether you are old or young, plain or beautiful, it matters not.My only wish is to talk to a woman, to hear a woman's voice""Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your nurse?" The attitude which accompanied these words was anything but assuring.
He, however, evinced no alarm.He even laughed."That was good!
We shall get along finely, I am sure."
"Monsieur," she said, rising, "I repeat that I do not desire your company, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable effrontery.""I beseech you!" implored Maurice, also rising."I am a foreigner, lonesome, unhappy, thousands of miles from home--""You are English?" suddenly.She stood with the knuckle of her forefinger on her lips as if meditating.She sat down.
Maurice, greatly surprised, also sat down.
"English?" he repeated.His thought was: "What the deuce! This is the third time I have been asked that.Who is this gay Lothario the women seem to be expecting?" To her he continued:
"And why do you ask me that?"
"Perhaps it is your accent.And what do you wish to say to me, Monsieur?" It was a voice of quality; all the anger had gone from it.She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms, and through the veil he caught the sparkle of a pair of wonderful eyes."Let us converse in English," she added."It is so long since I have had occasion to speak in that tongue." She repeated her question.
"O, I had no definite plan outlined," he answered; "just generalities, with the salt of repartee to season." He pondered over this sudden transition from wrath to mildness.An Englishman? Very well; it might grow interesting.
