Читаем Pimpernel and Rosemary полностью

Rosemary found Elza Imrey outwardly quite calm and resigned. That woman had a marvellous fund of common sense and self-control. What she suffered no one should know. Only when she read true understanding and mute sympathy in Rosemary's eyes, she gave an answering look which contained such a depth of sorrow and anxiety that Rosemary's heart was overwhelmed with pity. In these few hours Elza had aged twenty years. Anton had brought the news across from the lodge to the chateau in the early morning as soon as the Roumanian soldiers had gone away. The gracious countess had received the news with extraordinary indifference, was the verdict on the incident below stairs; Rosa was crying her eyes out, all the men-servants went about cursing and swearing and threatening to kill someone, but the gracious countess had not shed one tear. When she had heard Anton's report, she asked a few questions: what suit had the gracious count put on? did he take an overcoat? what shoes did he wear? and so on; but never a tear. Then she said: "Very well, Anton, you may go!" and that was all. No! No! It was not natural. But then these great ladies! . . . One never knew!

No one ever did know to what height a mother's heroism could go. Elza, with her heart nearly broken, thought only of what was best for Philip.

"Of course, he has done nothing!" she reiterated over and over again, "so they can't do anything to him."

Then her voice would break on a note of pathetic appeal; she would seize Rosemary's hands and search the depths of her English friend's eyes, with the look of a poor stricken animal begging for sympathy.

"Can they?" she asked, and Rosemary would shake her head, not trusting herself to speak. It was no use now rending the mother's heart, adding another load of anxiety to the heavily burdened soul. Elza would know soon enough. Soon enough! And she could do nothing even if she knew now.

Maurus was shut up in his own apartments, tearing up and down like a beast in its cage, raging and swearing. That was his temperament, Elza said philosophically, with a shrug; the Armenian blood in him. (She never would admit the gipsy strain.) Fortunately the servants were all Hungarian; faithful and discreet. They knew him. When he was in one of those moods they fled from him; but not one of them would betray him. Now he was threatening to kill every Roumanian that ever crossed his path. Well, fortunately there was no one to hear him-only the servants, and they would hold their tongues.

"Maurus won't understand," Elza explained to Rosemary, "that our chance is submission. If they turn us out of here it will be the end of Philip's inheritance. We must save that at all costs. What is the sacrifice of a little pride when it means so much for Philip's future. Things can't go on as they are-not for long, and if only I can keep Maurus quiet, we shall have Philip back here in a week."

Then she harked back on the old refrain. "He has done nothing. They can't do anything to him. Can they?"

CHAPTER XIII

Naniescu arrived soon after ten-o'clock. Rosemary heard the hooting of his motor when it turned in at the gate, also the general bustle, clatter, running about that ensued. Her rooms, with the balcony overlooking the park, were on the other side of the house, so she saw nothing of this; but somehow, after the arrival of his Excellency, the stately chateau appeared to have lost something of its dignified quietude. Loud voices resounded from end to end of the galleried hall, footsteps that sounded almost aggressive echoed along the corridors.

Jasper had gone down some time ago for a stroll in the park, while Rosemary dressed. She was sorry now that she had not asked him to be sure to come back so as to support her in her interview with Naniescu. However, this wish was only a momentary weakness. She had been accustomed for years past to stand on her own feet, to act for herself, and to take swift decisions without outside advice. So now, with a careless shrug, she turned back to the important task of dressing; this she did with deliberate care, then surveyed herself critically in the glass, and, having satisfied herself that Rosemary Tarkington was in no way less beautiful than Rosemary Fowkes had been, she settled herself down in her boudoir with a book and waited.

A very few minutes later one of the men came to announce that his Excellency General Naniescu desired to pay his respects to Lady Tarkington.

He came in looking breezy and gallant. He kissed Rosemary's hand, sat down on the chair she indicated to him, inquired after the state of her health, her journey, her work, all in a mellifluous voice and in execrable English. In fact, for the first five minutes of this momentous, visit he was just a pleasant, cheerful man of the world, exchanging banalities with a pretty woman.

"Et ce cher Tarkington?" he queried. "How is he?"

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