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

“That is not your last word, General Naniescu?”

“Indeed,” he replied with utmost gallantry, “but the last word rests with you, dear lady. I am ever at your service. Only,” he continued very slowly and very deliberately, “let me assure you once and for all that young Imrey and Anna Heves will appear before the military courts on a charge of treason unless a series of articles written in the spirit I have had the honour to outline before you, and bearing your distinguished name, appear in⁠—shall we say the Times?⁠—within the next month. But, just to show you how greatly I value your regard, I will be as lenient as my duty permits. I will even allow those two young traitors to return, temporarily, to their homes. Philip Imrey and Anna Heves will be brought here in the course of a day or two. They will be free, within certain limitations, to move about among their friends. I need not add, dear lady, that you, on the other hand, are absolutely free, without any limitations, to come and go as you choose. On the day that the last of your brilliant articles will have appeared in the Times Imrey and his cousin will receive a free pardon from the Government which they have outraged.”

He paused a moment, then raised one hairy, manicured finger and added with theatrical emphasis:

“But not before.”

Rosemary had listened to his long speech without moving a muscle. She stood straight as a sapling, looking unflinchingly at the man, striving to shame him, yet knowing that in this she would not succeed. There was no room for shame or compunction in that bundle of conceit and depravity.

Fear, too, appeared to be one of the tortuous motives which had suggested this ignominious “either-or.” How far the Romanian Government was a party to the mishandling of Transylvania, Rosemary had not yet had the opportunity of ascertaining.

She strongly suspected Naniescu of having overstretched his powers, and of dreading an exposure at Bucharest more, perhaps, than in London or New York. Now, when he had finished speaking, and while his mellow eyes still rested with gentle mockery upon her, she could not keep back the final taunt which she hoped would sting him as much as his urbanity had stung her.

“What proof have I,” she queried slowly, “that if I fulfil my share of the bargain you will not in the end repudiate yours?”

He smiled, quite undisturbed.

“You mistrust me. It is only natural,” he said unctuously. “But what can I do?”

“Write me a letter,” she replied coldly, “embodying your terms for the release of Philip Imrey and Anna Heves, and your promise to keep to the bargain if I accept those terms.”

“Will that satisfy you?” he asked.

“It would hold you to your word, at any rate. For if it did not⁠—”

He gave his soft, throaty laugh, and a glimmer of satisfaction shot through his eyes.

“You Englishwomen are truly marvellous,” he observed. “So businesslike. Everything in black and white⁠—what?”

“Preferably,” she rejoined drily.

“Well, then, you shall have the letter, dear lady,” he concluded blandly. “And I promise you that I shall so tie myself down to my share of this interesting transaction that you will not hesitate any longer to fulfil yours.”

And the next moment, even while Rosemary turned towards the window in order to look for one brief moment, at any rate, on something clean and pure, Naniescu had gone, softly closing the door behind him and leaving in his wake a faint odour of Havana cigar and eau de cologne, and an atmosphere of intrigue which Rosemary felt to be stifling. She threw open the window and inhaled the clean air right down into her lungs. Her thoughts were still in a whirl. The situation was so impossible that her brain at present rejected it. It could not be. Things like this did not occur. It was not modern. Not twentieth century. Not postwar. Civilised men and women did not have interviews such as she had just had with this smooth-tongued Romanian. There was something medieval about this “either-or,” this impasse to which in very truth there was no issue.

Rosemary now started pacing up and down the room. She was alone and could indulge in this time-tried method of soothing jangled nerves. With both forefingers she tapped her temples, as if to stimulate the work of a jaded brain. Issue? There must be an issue to this impasse. She was a British subject, the wife of an English peer. She could not be bullied into doing things against which her sense of honour rebelled. She could not be made to lend her name to falsehoods, knowing them to be falsehoods. Of course not. Of course not. She could not be compelled. That was a fact. An undisputable, hard, solid fact. What then? Well, then there were Philip and Anna, who would be brought before the military courts on a charge of treason. And the military courts would condemn them⁠—to what? To death? No! No! No! Not to death! Philip and little Anna: children whom she knew and loved! Condemned to death! Shot! like Edith Cavell, or Captain Fryatt! Shot! But that was in war time! Now the world was at peace! The Treaty of Versailles was the millennium that would bring peace on earth, goodwill toward men! Peace! This was peace! Foolish, thoughtless children could not in peace time be shot as traitors!

Tap-tap went Rosemary’s fingers against her temples. Peace, ye gods! Philip and Anna had rendered themselves liable to human justice, and human justice in this half-forgotten corner of God’s earth knew but one law⁠—revenge! Philip and Anna would be condemned⁠—and shot, unless she, Rosemary Tarkington, gained a free pardon for them at the price of truth, honour and the welfare, perhaps, of thousands of innocents.

And as gradually this awful alternative penetrated into the innermost recesses of her brain, the girl looked wildly about her like an animal suddenly fallen into a trap. Her knees all at