Part 41 (1/2)
”Say yes, Amalia. For to the student of etymology the very word portmanteau--”
The Baroness bent toward him and said:
”I am sorry to inform your Highness that there is some one at the door of the summer-house.”
II
Inasmuch as all Noumaria knew that its little Grand Duke, once closeted with the lady whom he delighted to honor, did not love intrusions, and inasmuch as a discreet Court had learned, long ago, to regard the summer-house as consecrate to his Highness and the Baroness von Altenburg,--for these reasons the Grand Duke was inclined to resent disturbance of his privacy when he first peered out into the gardens.
His countenance was less severe when he turned again toward the Baroness, and it smacked more of bewilderment.
”It is only my wife,” he said.
”And the Comte de Chateauroux,” said the Baroness.
There is no denying that their voices were somewhat lowered. The chill and frail beauty of the Grand d.u.c.h.ess was plainly visible from where they sat; to every sense a woman of snow, his Highness mentally decided, for her gown this evening was white and the black hair powdered; all white she was, a cloud-tatter in the moonlight: yet with the Comte de Chateauroux as a foil, his uniform of the Cuira.s.siers a big stir of glitter and color, she made an undeniably handsome picture; and it was, quite possibly, the Grand Duke's aesthetic taste which held him for the moment motionless.
”After all--” he began, and rose.
”I am afraid that her Highness--” the Baroness likewise commenced.
”She would be sure to,” said the Grand Duke, and thereupon he sat down.
”I do not, however,” said the Baroness, ”approve of eavesdropping.”
”Oh, if you put it that way--” agreed the Grand Duke, and he was rising once more, when the voice of de Chateauroux stopped him.
”No, not at any cost!” de Chateauroux; was saying; ”I cannot and I will not give you up, Victoria!”
”--though I have heard,” said his Highness, ”that the moonlight is bad for the eyes.” Saying this, he seated himself composedly in the darkest corner of the summer-house.
”This is madness!” the Grand d.u.c.h.ess said--”sheer madness.”
”Madness, if you will,” de Chateauroux persisted, ”yet it is a madness too powerful and sweet to be withstood. Listen, Victoria,”--and he waved his hand toward the palace, whence music, softened by the distance, came from the lighted windows,--”do you not remember? They used to play that air at Staarberg.”
The Grand d.u.c.h.ess had averted her gaze from him. She did not speak.
He continued: ”Those were contented days, were they not, when we were boy and girl together? I have danced to that old-world tune so many times--with you! And to-night, madame, it recalls a host of unforgettable things, for it brings back to memory the scent of that girl's hair, the soft cheek that sometimes brushed mine, the white shoulders which I so often had hungered to kiss, before I dared--”
”Hein?” muttered the Grand Duke.
”We are no longer boy and girl,” the Grand d.u.c.h.ess said. ”All that lies behind us. It was a dream--a foolish dream which we must forget.”
”Can you in truth forget?” de Chateauroux demanded,--”can you forget it all, Victoria?--forget that night a Gnestadt, when you confessed you loved me? forget that day at Staarberg, when we were lost in the palace gardens?”
”Mon Dieu, what a queer method!” murmured the Grand Duke. ”The man makes love by the almanac.”
”Nay, dearest woman in the world,” de Chateauroux went on, ”you loved me once, and that you cannot have quite forgotten. We were happy then--very incredibly happy,--and now--”
”Life,” said the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, ”cannot always be happy.”