Pimpernel and Rosemary by Baroness Orczy (ebook reader 7 inch TXT) 📕

as you are pleased to call them,” Naniescu went on with slow deliberation, shedding his affected manner as a useless garment no longer required to conceal his thoughts, “the children have done us an infinity of mischief, in the eyes of the British and American public, by the publication of articles defamatory to our Government; for this they have deserved punishment. Now, I propose to remit that punishment if you will undo the mischief that they have done.”

“I?” Rosemary exclaimed, puzzled. “How?”

“By publishing newspaper articles that will refute those calumnies once and for all,” the general said blandly. Then, as Rosemary recoiled at the suggestion as if she had been struck in the face, he went on cynically: “You are such a brilliant journalist, dear lady, endowed with a vivid imagination. It will be easy for you to do this for the sake of those two young traitors in whom you take such a kindly interest. You may, in your articles, begin by stating the truth, if you like, and say that my Government invited you to come over to Transylvania in order to investigate the alleged acts of tyranny that are supposed to be perpetrated against the minority nationals. Then you will proceed to state that after impartial and exhaustive inquiry you have come to the conclusion that practically all the charges brought against us are unfounded, that with the exception of a few inevitable hardships consequent of foreign occupation, the minority nationals in Transylvania are enjoying the utmost freedom and security under the just laws of an enlightened country. You will⁠—”

But here the flow of the worthy general’s eloquence received a sudden check in the shape of a rippling outburst of laughter from Rosemary. He frowned; not understanding her mood, his knowledge of women being superficial, his thoughts flew to hysteria. He had known a woman once⁠—

As a matter of fact there was something hysterical about Rosemary’s laughter. She checked it as soon as she regained control over herself. It was as well that she could laugh, that her sense of humour, never absent in an Englishwoman of intellect, had at once shown her the folly of giving way to the indignation which had been her first impulse. Frankly she could not see herself as an outraged tragedy queen thundering forth an emphatic “Never!” to the Romanian’s impudent proposals; and when Naniescu marvelled at the strange moods of women and vainly tried to guess what there was in the present situation to make this pretty woman laugh, he little knew that Rosemary was laughing at an imaginary picture of herself, with head thrown back and flaming eyes, and gestures that rivalled those of the general himself in their elegant and expressive sweep.

“You must forgive me, Monsieur le Général,” she said presently, “but your proposition is so funny!”

“Funny, dear lady!” he protested. “Frankly I do not see⁠—”

“No,” she broke in, “you would not.”

“Will you be so gracious as to explain?”

“No,” Rosemary went on lightly, “I don’t think I will. You would not understand⁠—even then.”

“Then,” he said coolly, “there is nothing left for me to do but to take my leave, and to deplore that you should have wasted so much of your valuable time in conversation with a clod.”

He rose, and bowing low, he put out his hand in order to take hers, but Rosemary did not move.

“You cannot go, Monsieur le Général,” she said firmly, “without giving me a definite answer.”

“I have given you a definite answer, dear lady. It is my misfortune that you choose to treat it as ludicrous.”

“But surely you were not serious when you suggested⁠—”

“When I suggested that the mischief wrought by two traitors should be remedied by one who takes an interest in them? What could be more serious?”

“You seriously think,” she insisted, “that I would lend myself to such traffic? that I would put my name to statements which I could not verify, or to others that I should actually believe to be false? Ah ça, Monsieur le Général, where did you get your conception of English women of letters, or of English journalists?”

Naniescu put his fingertips to his breast, then spread out his hands with a broad gesture of protest.

“I was wrong,” he said suavely, “utterly wrong. I admit it. Forgive me, and permit me to take my leave⁠—”

“Monsieur le Général⁠—”

“At your service, dear lady.”

“Young Imrey,” she pleaded, “and Anna Heves!”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I am truly sorry for them,” he said unctuously; “but surely you do not think seriously that I would lend myself to any traffic where the safety of my country is concerned. Ah ça, dear lady,” he went on, not only mocking the very words she had used, but even the inflection of her voice. “Where did you get your conception of a Romanian officer or of a Romanian gentleman?”

“It is you who proposed an infamous traffic,” she retorted, “not I.”

“Pardon me,” he protested. “All that I suggested was that the mischief done should be remedied in the simplest way, before those who had wrought it could hope for pardon. The mischief was done through the public Press; it can only be made good through the public Press, and only through the medium of one as influential as yourself. My suggestion has not met with your approval. Let us say no more about it.”

Before she could prevent it he had taken her hand and raised it to his lips. She snatched it away as if her fingertips had come in contact with something noxious; the indignation which she had tried so hard to keep under control flamed for an instant out of her eyes; and Naniescu, seeing it, gave a soft, guttural laugh.

“I had a suspicion,” he said cynically, “that the situation was not entirely ludicrous. And now,” he went on, “have I your permission to take my leave?”

He bowed once more, hand on breast, heels clicking, and was on the point of turning to go when an impulsive cry from Rosemary brought him