"I have never had a valet," said Fitzgerald; "he would embarrass me.""As you please," said the Colonel, a shade of disappointment in his tones."After all, you are soldiers, where every man is for himself.Make yourselves at home;" and he withdrew.
Maurice at once applied lather and razor, and put on the handsome uniform, which fitted him snugly.The coat was tailless, with rows of silver buttons running from collar to waist.The breast and shoulders and sleeves were covered with silver lace, and Maurice concluded that it must be nothing less than a captain's uniform.The trousers were tight fitting, with broad stripes of silver; and the half boots were of patent leather.He walked backward and forward before the pier-glass.
"I say, Fitz, what do you think of it?"
"You're a handsome rascal, Maurice," answered the Englishman, who had watched his young friend, amusement in his sober eyes.
"Happily, there are no young women present.""Go to! I'll lay odds that our hostess is under twenty-five.""I meant young women of sixteen or seventeen.Women such as Madame have long since passed the uniform fever.""Not when it has lace, my friend, court lace.Well, forward to the dining hall."Both were rather disappointed to find that Madame would be absent until dinner.Fitzgerald could not tell exactly why he was disappointed, and he was angry with himself for the vague regret.Maurice, however, found consolation in the demure French maid who served them.Every time he smiled she made a courtesy, and every time she left the room Maurice nudged Fitzgerald.
"Smile, confound you, smile!" he whispered."There's never a maid but has her store of gossip, and gossip is information.""Pshaw!" said Fitzgerald, helping himself to cold ham and chicken.
"Wine, Messieurs?" asked the maid.
"Ah, then Madame offers the cellars?" said Maurice.
"Yes, Messieurs.There is chambertin, champagne, chablis, tokayer and sherry.""Bring us some chambertin, then."
"Oui, Messieurs."
"Hurry along, my Hebe," said Maurice.
The maid was not on familiar terms with the classics, but she told the butler in the pantry that the smooth-faced one made a charming Captain.
"Keep your eyes open," grumbled the butler; "he'll be kissing you next.""He might do worse," was the retort.Even maids have their mirrors, and hers told a pretty story.When she returned with the wine she asked: "And shall I pour it, Messieurs?""No one else shall," declared Maurice."When is the duchess to arrive?""I do not know, Monsieur," stepping in between the chairs and filling the glasses with the ruby liquid.
"Who is Madame Sylvia Amerbach?"
"Madame Sylvia Amerbach," placing the bottle on the table and going to the sideboard.She returned with a box of "Khedives."Fitzgerald laughed at Maurice's disconcertion.
"Where has Madame gone?"
"To the summer home of Countess Herzberg, who is to return with Madame.""Oho!" cried Maurice, in English."A countess! What do you say to that, my Englishman?""She is probably old and plain.Madame desires a chaperon.""You forget that Madame desires nothing but those certificates.
And the chaperon does not live who could keep an eye on Madame Sylvia Amerbach."The mention of the certificates brought back all the Englishman's discomfort, and he emptied his glass of wine not as a lover of good wine should.Soon they rose from the table.The maid ran to the door and held it open.Fitzgerald hurried through, but Maurice lingered a moment.He put his hand under the porcelain chin and looked into the china-blue eyes.
Fitzgerald turned.
"What was that noise?" he asked, as Maurice shouldered him along the hall.
"What noise?"
Madame came back to the chateau at five, and dinner was announced at eight.The Countess Herzberg was young and pretty, the possessor of a beautiful mouth and a charming smile.The Colonel did the honors at the table.Maurice almost fancied himself in Vienna, the setting of the dining room was so perfect.
The entire room was paneled in walnut.On the mantel over the great fireplace stood silver candlesticks with wax tapers.The candlestick in the center of the table was composed of twelve branches.The cuisine was delectable, the wines delicious.
Madame and the countess were in evening dress.The Colonel was brimming with anecdote, the countess was witty, Madame was a sister to Aspasia.
Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled.It was very irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve to alter this fact.What was the meaning of it? What lay underneath?
Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame when her attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw that Madame was returning this cursory investigation.There was, however, altogether a different meaning in these surreptitious glances.In the one there were interest, doubt, admiration; in the other, cold calculation.At no time did the conversation touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles away--if surface indications went for aught.
Finally the Colonel rose."A toast--to Madame the duchess, since this is her very best wine!"Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered his eyes and made no movement to raise his glass.The pupils in Madame's eyes grew small.
"That is scarcely polite, Monsieur," she said.
"Madame," he replied gently, "my parole did not include toasts to her Highness.My friend loves wine for its own sake, and seldom bothers his head about the toast as long as the wine is good.Permit me to withdraw the duchess and substitute yourself.""Do so, if it will please you.In truth, it was bad taste in you, count, to suggest it.""It's all the same to me;" and the Colonel refilled his glass and nodded.
The countess smiled behind her fan, while Maurice felt the edge of the mild reproach which had been administered to him.
