Part 92 (2/2)
Neeland thought of Ilse Dumont. Presently he asked whether any message had been received from the Princess Mistchenka.
”Madame the Princess telephoned from Havre at four o'clock this afternoon. Mademoiselle Carew has the message.”
Neeland, rea.s.sured, nodded:
”No other news, Marotte?”
”The military have taken our automobiles from the garage, and have requisitioned the car which Madame la Princess is now using, ordering us to place it at their disposal as soon as it returns from Havre.
Also, Monsieur le Capitaine Sengoun has telephoned from the Russian Emba.s.sy, but Mademoiselle Carew would not permit Monsieur to be awakened.”
”What did Captain Sengoun say?”
”Mademoiselle Carew received the message.”
”And did anyone else call me up?” asked Neeland, smiling.
”_Il y avait une fe--une espece de dame_,” replied the old man doubtfully, ”--who named herself Fifi la Tzigane. I permitted myself to observe to her,” added the butler with dignity, ”that she had the liberty of writing to you what she thought necessary to communicate.”
He had arranged the tea-table. Now he retired, but returned almost immediately to decorate the table with Cloth of Gold roses.
Fussing and pottering about until the ma.s.s of lovely blossoms suited him, he finally presented himself to Neeland for further orders, and, learning that there were none, started to retire with a self-respecting dignity that was not at all impaired by the tears which kept welling up in his aged eyes, and which he always winked away with a _demi-tour_ and a discreet cough correctly stifled by his dry and wrinkled hand.
As he pa.s.sed out the door Neeland said:
”Are you in trouble, Marotte?”
The old man straightened up, and a fierce pride blazed for a moment from his faded eyes:
”Not trouble, monsieur; but--when one has three sons departing for the front--_dame!_--that makes one reflect a little----”
He bowed with the unconscious dignity of a wider liberty, a subtler equality which, for a moment, left such as he indifferent to circ.u.mstances of station.
Neeland stepped forward extending his hand:
”_Bonne chance!_ G.o.d be with France--and with us all who love our liberty. Luck to your three sons!”
”I thank monsieur----” He steadied his voice, bowed in the faultless garments which were his badge of service, and went his way through the silence in the house.
Neeland had walked to the long windows giving on the pretty balcony with its delicate, wrought-iron rails and its brilliant ma.s.ses of geraniums.
Outside, along the Avenue, in absolute silence, a regiment of cuira.s.siers was pa.s.sing, the level sun blazing like sheets of crimson fire across their helmets and breastplates. And now, listening, the far clatter of their horses came to his ears in an immense, unbroken, rattling resonance.
Their gold-fringed standard pa.s.sed, and the sunlight on the naked sabres ran from point to hilt like liquid blood. Sons of the Cuira.s.siers of Morsbronn, grandsons of the Cuira.s.siers of Waterloo--what was their magnificent fate to be?--For splendid it could not fail to be, whether tragic or fortunate.
The American's heart began to hammer in his breast and throb in his throat, closing it with a sudden spasm that seemed to confuse his vision for a moment and turn the distant pa.s.sing regiment to a glittering stream of steel and flame.
Then it had pa.s.sed; the darkly speeding torrent of motor cars alone possessed the Avenue; and Neeland turned away into the room again.
And there, before him, stood Rue Carew.
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