Part 28 (1/2)
”You are not going?” said Margaret. ”Oh no. Wait, and we will think of some expedient. Besides you have not told me half what I want to know.
The money is of no consequence; but what had you done to lead to such a sentence? Are you really a Nihilist?”
”Dieu m'en garde!” said the Count devoutly. ”I am a Republican, that is all. Seulement, our Holy Russia does not distinguish.”
”Is not the distinction very subtle?”
”The difference between salvation by education and salvation by dynamite; the difference between building up and tearing down, between Robespierre and Monsieur Was.h.i.+ngton.”
”You must have been indiscreet. How could they have found it out?”
”I was bete enough to write an article in the _Russki Mir_--the mildest of articles. And then some of the Nihilist agents thought I was in their interests and wanted to see me, and the police observed them, and I was at once cla.s.sed as a Nihilist myself, and there was a perquisition in my house. They found some notes and a few ma.n.u.scripts of mine, quite enough to suit their purpose, and so the game was up.”
”But they did not arrest you?”
”No. As luck would have it, I was in Berlin at the time, on leave from my regiment, for I was never suspected before in the least. And the Nihilists, who, to tell the truth, are well organised and take good care of their brethren, succeeded in pa.s.sing word to me not to come back. A few days afterwards the Russian Emba.s.sy were hunting for me in Berlin.
But I had got away. Sentence was pa.s.sed in contempt, and I read the news in the papers on my way to Paris. There is the whole history.”
”Have you any money?” inquired Margaret after a pause.
”Mon Dieu! I have still a hundred napoleons. After that the deluge.”
”By that time we shall be ready for the deluge,” said Margaret cheerfully. ”I have many friends, and something may yet be done.
Meanwhile do not distress yourself about me; you know I have something of my own.”
”How can I thank you for your kindness? You ought to hate me, and instead you console!”
”My dear friend, if I did not like you for your own sake, I would help you because you are poor Alexis's brother.” There was no emotion in her voice at the mention of her dead husband, only a certain reverence. She had honoured him more than she had loved him.
”Princesse, quand meme,” said Nicholas in a low voice, as he raised her fingers to his lips.
”Leave me your address before you go. I will write as soon as I have decided what to do.” Nicholas scratched the name of a hotel on his card.
When he was gone Margaret sank into a chair. She would have sent for Claudius--Claudius was a friend--but she recollected his note, and thought with some impatience that just when she needed him most he was away. Then she thought of Lady Victoria, and she rang the bell. But Lady Victoria had gone out with her brother, and they had taken Miss Skeat.
Margaret was left alone in the great hotel. Far off she could hear a door shut or the clatter of the silver covers of some belated breakfast service finding its way up or down stairs. And in the street the eternal clatter and hum and crunch, and crunch and hum and clatter of men and wheels; the ceaseless ring of the tram-cars stopping every few steps to pick up a pa.s.senger, and the jingle of the horses' bells as they moved on. It was hot--it was very hot. Clementine was right, it was _hebetant_, as it can be in New York in September. She bethought herself that she might go out and buy things, that last resource of a rich woman who is tired and bored.
Buy things! She had forgotten that she was ruined. Well, not quite that, but it seemed like it. It would be long before she would feel justified in buying anything more for the mere amus.e.m.e.nt of the thing. She tried to realise what it would be like to be poor. But she failed entirely, as women of her sort always do. She was brave enough if need be; if it must come, she had the courage to be poor. But she had not the skill to paint to herself what it would be like. She could not help thinking of Claudius. It would be so pleasant just now to have him sitting there by her side, reading some one of those wise books he was so fond of.
It was so hot. She wished something would happen. Poor Nicholas! He need not have been so terribly cut up about the money. Who is there? It was Vladimir. Vladimir brought a card. Yes, she would see the gentleman.
Vladimir disappeared, and a moment after ushered in Mr. Horace Bellingham, commonly known as ”Uncle Horace.”
”I am so glad to see you, Mr. Bellingham,” said Margaret, who had conceived a great liking for the old gentleman on the previous evening, and who would have welcomed anybody this morning.
Mr. Bellingham made a bow of the courtliest, most _ancien-regime_ kind.
He had ventured to bring her a few flowers. Would she accept them? They were only three white roses, but there was more beauty in them than in all Mr. Barker's profusion. Margaret took them, and smelled them, and fastened them at her waist, and smiled a divine smile on the bearer.
”Thank you, so much,” said she.
”No thanks,” said he; ”I am more than repaid by your appreciation;” and he rubbed his hands together and bowed again, his head a little on one side, as if deprecating any further acknowledgment. Then he at once began to talk a little, to give her time to select her subject if she would; for he belonged to a cla.s.s of men who believe it their duty to talk to women, and who do not expect to sit with folded hands and be amused. To such men America is a revelation of social rest. In America the women amuse the men, and the men excuse themselves by saying that they work hard all day, and cannot be expected to work hard all the evening. It is evidently a state of advanced civilisation, incomprehensible to the grosser European mind--a state where talking to a woman is considered to be hard work. Or--in fear and trembling it is suggested--is it because they are not able to amuse their womankind? Is their refusal a _testimonium paupertatis ingenii_? No--perish the thought! It may have been so a long time ago, in the Golden Age. This is not the Golden Age; it is the Age of Gold. Messieurs! faites votre jeu!