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

to get ten thousand pounds sterling for them. I suppose you think they are worth it?” he added, turning with his habitual sneer to Naniescu.

“I think,” the general replied slowly, “that with the arrest of Philip Imrey and Anna Heves, which, when it becomes known, will deter other young fools from playing the same game⁠—with that, I say, as a makeweight, I think the articles will be worth the money⁠—to my Government and to me.”

“Well,” Number Ten rejoined coolly, “I shouldn’t have done your dirty work for less.”

And Naniescu once more gave a fatuous sigh and murmured:

“Ils sont impayables, ces Anglais!” whilst de Kervoisin smiled as a philosopher smiles on follies and stupidities with which he has no concern. Then he asked Number Ten: “And when do you return to civilization, my friend⁠—to decent clothes and a bath?”

“At once,” the other replied, “unless I am wanted for something else.”

“No, no, my dear man,” the general rejoined, with perfect affability. “I am quite content to leave everything in your hands.”

“And when do you want those articles?”

“Shall we say within the week?”

“You shall have them,” Number Ten said coolly as he rose from his chair. He nodded to Kervoisin, who responded cordially: “A bientôt, mon ami!” Then he turned to go; but already Naniescu was on his feet.

“I’ll escort you,” he said hospitably, “in case you meet anyone on the stairs. In your present getup,” he added with his oily, guttural laugh, “it might be awkward.”

“Thank you,” the other assented coolly, and, gathering up the dirty old military coat, he strode to the door. Naniescu was already there, holding it open for him.

“You will stay and have lunch with M. de Kervoisin and me, I hope,” he said.

“I think not, thank you,” the other replied.

“Ah! You are going to Hódmezö, perhaps⁠—or to Kis-Imre?”

And Number Ten replied, with his habitual curtness:

“That is my affair.”

De Kervoisin, who still sat smoking, chuckled at this. A scene such as this was part of a philosopher’s enjoyment. Naniescu threw him a look, and shrugged his shoulders. De Kervoisin could almost hear him reiterating his stock phrase: “Ils sont impayables, ces Anglais!”

After that the two men went out of the room and de Kervoisin remained, sitting and smoking, with a thin smile on his colourless lips⁠—the smile of a philosopher who sees the humour of a situation which to a less keen mind would only appear obscure and topsy-turvy, and after a while he murmured softly to himself:

“They certainly are remarkable, these English!”

Memory had brought back to his mind that cruel, wolf-like look which for one unguarded moment had distorted the features of the spy. There was, then, some motive other than greed or love of sport, that had pushed the Englishman into doing this dirty work. Hatred? Love? Perhaps. Passion? Certainly.

“I wonder now!” mused M. de Kervoisin.

And being a Frenchman as well as a philosopher he was deeply interested in this new problem.

XXVII

But Rosemary was not gifted with second sight, and she saw nothing of this while she knelt at the open window of her pretty room at Kis-Imre. She was in such an agony of mind, that for a time she became almost insentient. Presently, dressed as she was, she threw herself upon the bed, because she was dog-tired and had no longer the power to feel or to suffer. Even the well of her sympathy appeared to be dry. She could not bring herself to think of Elza or of Maurus, or to feel for them; even Philip and Anna seemed blotted from her mind. An intense self-pity absorbed every other sensation for the moment. She felt herself in such a hopeless impasse that she had not even the strength to beat her hands against the walls that had so completely closed her in.

And so she lay there for an hour and more while life in the château went on, unheeded by her. Long afterwards she heard that, as arranged, the guests all departed soon after nine o’clock, that Elza had been there to see them off, looking after their comforts, bidding them goodbye and tendering hospitable little invitations for the future. Wonderful as always! Rosemary saw nothing of that. She only heard of it afterwards, when she saw Elza again an hour or two later. For the time being she was just a log⁠—neither thinking nor feeling; conscious only of that intense self-pity which was so humiliating, because her senses were so numb that she had not the power to trace that self-pity to its source. While she lay on her bed, blind, deaf, dumb, she did not know that she suffered; she did not know that she lived.

But this state of coma was the one concession to weakness. A giving in. It was not the least like Rosemary; and as consciousness slowly returned and with it the power to feel, she felt humiliated on account of that weakness which was foreign to her. Fortunately no one had witnessed it. Dear, wonderful Elza had had her hands full, and the departing guests had only thought of being discreet and tactful and of leaving this stricken home without putting too great a strain upon the self-control of their hostess. They did not know, of course, that tragedy had followed on the exciting events of last night; but they asked no questions, well knowing that good news spreads like wildfire, and guessing perhaps by Elza’s set face and expressionless eyes that something was not altogether right.

Anyhow, they went away, and after their departure the house became still⁠—very still. Presently Rosemary had her bath and dressed, then left the room to go and search for Elza. So far she had not been able to gather anything from Rosa’s stolid, round face. The girl went about her work as if nothing special had happened; only when Rosemary was ready to go downstairs and gave Rosa a final nod, the girl suddenly said with an excited little