Part 70 (1/2)

”d.u.c.h.esse,” Peter answered, lowering his voice, ”without the memories which one is fortunate enough to collect as one pa.s.ses along, life would be a dreary place. The most beautiful things in the world cannot remain always with us. It is well, then, that the shadow of them can be recalled to us in the shape of dreams.”

Her eyes rewarded him for his gallantry. Peter felt that he was doing very well indeed. He indulged himself in a brief silence. Presently she returned to the subject of Sogrange.

”I think,” she remarked, ”that of all the men in the world I expected least to see the Marquis de Sogrange on board a steamer bound for New York. What can a man of his type find to amuse him in the New World?”

”One wonders, indeed,” Peter a.s.sented. ”As a matter of fact, I did read in a newspaper a few days ago that he was going to Mexico in connection with some excavations there. He spoke to me of it just now. They seem to have discovered a ruined temple of the Incas, or something of the sort.”

The d.u.c.h.esse breathed what sounded very much like a sigh of relief.

”I had forgotten,” she admitted, ”that New York itself need not necessarily be his destination.”

”For my own part,” Peter continued, ”it is quite amazing, the interest which the evening papers always take in the movements of one connected ever so slightly with their world. I think that a dozen newspapers have told their readers the exact amount of money I am going to lend or borrow in New York, the stocks I am going to bull or bear, the mines I am going to purchase. My presence on an American steamer is accounted for by the journalists a dozen times over. Yours, d.u.c.h.esse, if one might say so without appearing over curious, seems the most inexplicable. What attraction can America possibly have for you?”

She glanced at him covertly from under her sleepy eyelids. Peter's face was like the face of a child.

”You do not, perhaps, know,” she said, ”that I was born in Cuba. I lived there, in fact, for many years. I still have estates in the country.”

”Indeed?” he answered. ”Are you interested, then, in this reported salvage of the Maine?”

There was a short silence. Peter, who had not been looking at her when he had asked his question, turned his head, surprised at her lack of response. His heart gave a little jump. The d.u.c.h.esse had all the appearance of a woman on the point of fainting. One hand was holding a scent bottle to her nose; the other, thin and white, ablaze with emeralds and diamonds, was gripping the side of her chair. Her expression was one of blank terror. Peter felt a s.h.i.+ver chill his own blood at the things he saw in her face. He himself was confused, apologetic, yet absolutely without understanding. His thoughts reverted at first to his own commonplace malady.

”You are ill, d.u.c.h.esse!” he exclaimed. ”You will allow me to call the deck steward? Or perhaps you would prefer your own maid? I have some brandy in this flask.”

He had thrown off his rug, but her imperious gesture kept him seated.

She was looking at him with an intentness which was almost tragical.

”What made you ask me that question?” she demanded.

His innocence was entirely apparent. Not even Peter could have dissembled so naturally.

”That question?” he repeated, vaguely. ”You mean about the Maine? It was the idlest chance, d.u.c.h.esse, I a.s.sure you. I saw something about it in the paper yesterday and it seemed interesting. But if I had had the slightest idea that the subject was distasteful to you, I would not have dreamed of mentioning it. Even now--I do not understand--”

She interrupted him. All the time he had been speaking she had shown signs of recovery. She was smiling now, faintly and with obvious effort, but still smiling.

”It is altogether my own fault, Baron,” she admitted, graciously.

”Please forgive my little fit of emotion. The subject is a very sore one among my countrypeople, and your sudden mention of it upset me. It was very foolish.”

”d.u.c.h.esse, I was a clumsy idiot!” Peter declared, penitently. ”I deserve that you should be unkind to me for the rest of the voyage.”

”I could not afford that,” she answered, forcing another smile. ”I am relying too much upon you for companions.h.i.+p. Ah! could I trouble you?”

she added. ”For the moment I need my maid. She pa.s.ses there.”

Peter sprang up and called the young woman, who was slowly pacing the deck. He himself did not at once return to his place. He went instead in search of Sogrange, and found him in his stateroom. Sogrange was lying upon a couch, in a silk smoking suit, with a French novel in his hand and an air of contentment which was almost fatuous. He laid down the volume at Peter's entrance.

”Dear Baron,” he murmured, ”why this haste! No one is ever in a hurry upon a steamer. Remember that we can't possibly get anywhere in less than eight days, and there is no task in the world, nowadays, which cannot be accomplished in that time. To hurry is a needless waste of tissue, and, to a person of my nervous temperament, exceedingly unpleasant.”

Peter sat down on the edge of the bunk.

”I presume you have quite finished?” he said. ”If so, listen to me. I am moving in the dark. Is it my fault that I blunder? By the merest accident I have already committed a hideous faux pas. You ought to have warned me.”