Thirteen years in God-forsaken outposts, with never a sight of a woman's face, the sound of her voice, the swish of her gown, nor a touch of the spell which radiates from her presence.
He had never made friends.Others had come up to him and passed him, and had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt of the cold, the heat, the watchfulness.He had made his bed; he was too much his father's son to whine because it was hard.
Often he used to think how a few words, from a pride humbled, would have removed the barrier.But the words never came, nor was the pride ever humbled.
Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months of pleasure.He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta, where his Colonel, who had received secret information concerning him, had treated him like a gentleman, and had employed him as regimental interpreter, for he spoke French and German and a smattering of Indian tongues.During his lonely hours he had studied, for he knew that some day he would be called upon to administer a vast fortune....He laid the pipe on the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin in his hands.What a fool he had been to waste the best years of his life! His father would have opened to him a boundless career;he would have seen the world under the guidance of a master hand.And here he was to-day, the possessor of millions, a beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a wanderer from place to place.
The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the memories which it would arouse would be too bitter....The shade of Beethoven touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin.But he was thinking only of his loneliness, and the marvelous touch of the hands which evoked the great spirits was lost upon him.
Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners.He had still much good humor to recover.He pulled at his lips, and wondered from time to time what was going on in Fitzgerald's head.Poor devil! he thought; could he resist this woman whose accomplishments were so varied that at one moment she could overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to some strolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could entertain for her nothing but admiration, what hope was there for the Englishman? What a woman! She savored of three hundred years off.To plan by herself, to arrange the minutest detail, and above all to wait patiently! Patience has never been the attribute of a woman of power; Madame possessed both patience and power.
The countess was seated in another dark corner.Suddenly she arose and said, in a voice blended with great trouble and impatience: "For pity's sake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play something lively; I am sad."The music stopped, but presently began again.Maurice leaned forward.Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise.He laughed silently.He was in Madame's thoughts.It struck him, however, that the notes had a defiant ring.
"Lights!" called Madame, rising from the stool.
Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired.Maurice, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the three faces.Madame's was radiant.Fitzgerald's was a mixture--a comical mixture--of content and enjoyment, but the countess's was as colorless as the wax in the candlesticks.He asked himself what other task she had to perform that she should take so long to recover her roses.Had the knowledge of her recent humiliation been too much for her?
She was speaking to him."Monsieur, will you walk with me in the park? I am faint.""Are you ill, countess?" asked Madame, coming up and placing her hand under the soft round chin of the other and striving to read her eyes.
"Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive me." When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice:
"Monsieur, I have brought you here to tell you something.Ifear that your friend is lost, for you can do nothing.""Not even if I break my word?" he asked.
"It would do no good."
"Why?"
"It is too late," lowly."I have been Madame's understudy too long not to read.Forgive me.I was to keep you apart; I have done so.The evil can not now be repaired.Your hope is that Madame has not fully considered his pride.""Has she any regard for him?"
"Sentiment?--love?" She uttered a short, incredulous laugh.
"Madame has brain, not heart.Could a woman with a heart plan as she plans?""Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of--""Monsieur, do not be unkind.I have asked your forgiveness.Let us not talk; let us be silent and listen to the night;" and she leaned over the terrace balustrade.
Maurice floated.As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed hair blew across his nostrils....The princess was at best a dream.It was not likely that he ever would speak to her again.
The princess was a poem, unlettered and unrhymed.But here, close to him, was a bit of beautiful material prose.The hair again blew out toward him and he moved his lips.She heard the vague sound and lifted her head.
Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the stables.There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.
