BOOK THREE

CHAPTER ONE

Towards the end of July, Diana received the following wire: "Rumour reports Greyhound daily hunts goddess of chase. Scherer." She laughed, then handed her reply to the waiting messenger: "Greater the certainty you will bag both. Wassilko."

She was reclining in a deck chair on the terrace of a white villa. The low roof and walls excluded the view on all sides save that which looked down upon the water. Nine o'clock had just struck, and it was at this early hour that Gregor had taken to coming. On horseback, the journey from the town needed a good hour, and under the most favourable conditions it took half an hour in the motor boat.

"Mary!"

The former nurse had joined Diana here in the early days. She was a native of these parts, and glad indeed was she to be back in the warm south, hoping never again to have to experience the bleakness of a northern clime. Her large, melancholy eyes with the earnest expression habitual to women born in southern lands, gazed forth with satisfaction upon the surrounding landscape. She now hastened to rejoin her mistress.

"Mary, do you see any sign of the boat?"

"Not yet. Here are your letters."

"They've come early."

"The telegraph boy brought them."

Diana drew the coarse linen wrapper about her knees, and sat up. She took her mail with a pout, as if swallowing some unpalatable doctor's stuff. Turning the letters over this way and that, she amused herself for a while trying to guess who the senders might be. Then throwing the others aside, she selected one from the pile because it had the town postmark and a typed address. It looked rather important, as if it might be an official message, something that needed immediate attention. The big quarto sheet bore no signature, merely the typewritten words:

"Be careful of showing your preference before the baron and his wife"

Just that; not even a full stop at the end. Diana had a flutter at her heart as she read the words "your preference" typed by a stranger's hand. Although she knew quite well that her intimacy with Gregor could not possibly remain a secret, she was loath to see a record of it on paper, typed by a fellow mortal's hand, sorted by yet another unknown person, stamped by a third, delivered by a fourth. She pushed the thing into an angle of the chair so that it might not be blown away in one of the sudden gusts of wind which frequently rose from the waters below. Chin in hand, elbow on knee, she gazed out over the shimmering expanse.

"Always this intrusion of the outer world! Always these octopus tentacles outstretched! Hardly had the blue ocean emerged from chaos and spread his great limbs to bask in the sun, sufficient unto himself, content, when ships must come sailing upon his heaving bosom, men must plumb his depths, besprinkle him with buoys, build towering lighthouses, so that in the end there is not one part of his anatomy that has not been discovered and named. When have I ever been left to love in peace? Not in Paris, where we were forced to leave the Hotel Athene and seek seclusion in a little servantless studio on the Montmartre heights. Not at Saint Gingolph, where no tourists visiting the lake of Geneva were ever supposed to come, and where Edmond always wore blue spectacles when he went into Evian so as not to be recognized. Not that time in Scotland when Charlie and I went away to the seaside, and he tried to transform his aristocratic ways and become a simple fisherman. Every time we were tracked down at last. And here are the scandalmongers at their old amusement once more!"

Suddenly she got up, called for her bathing things, slipped into a dark violet swimming suit, flung a white bath cloak about her, and in a trice had reached the little hut which stood on the margin of the water at the foot of the garden surrounding the villa. She climbed to the top of the ladder and dived. Up she came, spluttering to the surface, the head showing a few locks which had escaped from her cap and dripped down her cheeks. With a free, overarm stroke, she swam through a gap in the protective palisading out into the open water. The currents made swimming in these parts rather dangerous even for the best of swimmers, but regardless, she made for an eddy which sparkled in the sun, and swam round it. Now she saw a motor boat coming from mid-stream and making for the landing-stage she had left a moment ago. She knew both the vessel and its helmsman, and swam vigorously towards it. Within a few yards of it she suddenly dived and swam under water until she saw the keel above her. Then up she came again and cried:

"Ware, enemy; torpedo to starboard!"

Gregor, who had seen something suddenly disappear in the water ahead and who guessed whence the attack came, had slowed down to dodge his assailant. Now two brown hands gripped the side of the boat. Throwing her a rope, he exclaimed:

"Clear for action! Fire!"

Glistening and smooth, she pulled herself half out of the water, while he, making full speed ahead, put the boat's nose towards the shore.

"Spoils of war," she laughed. "Surrender!"

"No, no; having no ship, you are my prisoner."

Laughing and teasing, they reached the landing-stage. Throwing the painter to Diana's brown-skinned serving-man who had quickly come down to the waterside as they drew near, Gregor turned to speak to the swimmer, but she was nowhere to be seen, having with youthful alacrity clambered out of the water and made for the hut.

"Good morning, Sir," said Mary, and once more he was grateful to her in that she never called him "Excellency," and never bowed in deference to his rank.

He passed by the table which had been laid for breakfast in the cool twilit hall, and leaned against one of the wooden pillars whose silhouette stood out black against the pale-blue background of waters.

"Have I recaptured my lost youth? She looked no more than a girl in her teens just now. If I ever should divulge the fact that six weeks after I first met her I was confiding all my plans to this woman and relying on her for counsel and advice, I should be laughed out of court. People would say: 'Fancy at your age being led into such folly by the sight of a neat pair of ankles!' Romantic, indeed!"

The sound of naked feet running up the marble steps made him swing around. Diana stood in the doorway muffled in her towel wrap, her hair still damp from her morning dip.

"You are late and I am hungry. So must you be. Come along!"

She made him sit down and pushed dishes of meat and eggs and what not towards him, served him his tea, and scrutinized the figs that lay in a wide dish at the centre of the table. At last she found one to her liking, and, breaking it open, plunged her fine white teeth into its rosy pulp.

"Perfect! Neither too hard nor too soft, those are the best. They should be elastic, cool without and ripe within. What are you smiling at?"

"Like women, in fact!"

"There spoke Gregor the thirty-year-old."

"Yes, I suppose Gregor the greybeard should have said: 'Diana'!"

"No, not that exactly. You know the symbolism attached to this perfect fruit; you know that you grew to maturity slower and in a more natural manner than I, who, maybe, came to know everything too soon and in the end shall probably incur the wrath of the gods."

"Nereid! Were it not that you keep your charms (lately disporting themselves so shamelessly in the sun) hidden away in the folds of that clumsy wrap, I should establish my claim."

Diana had learned his way of giving the pathetic an ambiguous twist, so she let it go at that. He, too, knew his Diana well enough to know that she would never demean herself to fish for a compliment. They both sat eating, and kept their own counsel. At length Gregor broke the silence:

"We always seem to begin at different ends of the stick when we breakfast together. Suppose you pick me out a fig, to finish off with, as perfect as the one you had as an appetizer?"

She felt several of the fruits before she picked out one that satisfied her, one of the smallest in the dish. This she offered him, saying: "Perfect."

He took it, and cut it open.

"You always pronounce that word with a kind of solemnity, much as when I was a young man they came to tell us in the casino: 'Tomorrow His Majesty will be coming.'"

"That's just how I feel about it. The word makes me feel sort of anxious and uneasy."

"Perhaps it is because unconsciously you feel that you yourself are nearer perfection than most," he teased.

"I rarely compare myself with others, except in moments of weakness. I've too good an opinion of myself! But my idea of perfection is so immense, that I must remain humble for ever. That's why I have no desire to write, as you were suggesting lately. No book of mine could ever attain perfection."

"Yes, but doesn't the idea of influencing others attract you? I had that notion once when I dreamt of becoming a great composer."

"Very little, Gregor. I only care to influence those I am fond of and who are worth influencing."

"Is it worth your while this time?" he said banteringly, with a vestige of coquetry in his voice. But at the same instant he was on his feet and had come round to her side of the table. Pulling her chair back, he knelt before her, raising the wrap to her knees and kissing them:

"Is it worth your while this time, in spite of grey hairs and limbs that are no longer as lithe as a young Narcissus's?"

"Gregor," she protested softly, making him get up and sit at the table again.

Somewhat abashed, he changed the subject, and asked abruptly:

"Have you seen that—have you seen young Seeland again?"

"Oh yes, I saw him yesterday."

She spoke calmly, but he made an impatient gesture. There had been a slumbering uneasiness in his mind ever since that day three weeks ago when, on the homeward journey from the temple, in answer to his persistent questioning as to Othello's master she had said: "He was at one time an intimate friend of mine." Now this uneasiness, which had been dormant, sprang up, awake and alert again. He had not wished to intrude upon her privacy, and yet he could not resist asking: "Here?"

"Yes, he came to fetch Othello who had again run away from him."

Silence. Diana watched him. His nostrils quivered slightly, betraying his secret emotions. She laid a hand affectionately on his arm.

"Gregor, he was only here a minute or two, and I did not come down till he was about to drive away."

He looked up and said somewhat nervously:

"Yes, yes, I know, I believe you..."

"Well, and what then?"

"It must have been awfully exciting—for him!"

"Very likely."

"Did he behave—all right?"

"Faultlessly."

"Shake hands?"

"Of course."

"Kiss your hand?"

"Of course not."

"Er—came in the evening?"

"In the forenoon. If he'd come ten minutes earlier you'd have met."

"I must find out from my Austrian colleague when he thinks of utilizing the young man's capabilities in the consular service."

She laughed. He was suddenly silent, pensive. Then, drawing an envelope from an inside pocket he handed it to her.

"Just read that. Ridiculous nonsense!"

Diana spread out the sheet of paper and read: "The countess is betraying the count with Herr Andreas Seeland." The message had been typed.

She looked at him earnestly, trying to fathom his thoughts. His face revealed nothing. With a laugh she said:

"The letter to you is on smaller paper, intimate, more like a letter of condolence. Mine is on a large quarto sheet, altogether more imposing, taking the form of a solemn denunciation."

"You've had a warning too?"

Gregor spoke quickly, with ill-concealed excitement. The thought flashed through his mind that Andreas was courting both these women at once. Intolerable!

"My communication does not relate to him," she answered, reading his thoughts and hoping to tranquillize him.

"To whom, then? To me?"

"I am to be on my guard against the baron," she said, going off to fetch the letter.

The missives were compared, held up to the light, the postmarks on the envelopes examined.

"Differences don't mean anything. It must be the same person... and yet, no..."

"Whom do you think mine is from?"

"Hm. Kopp or the prince. They both dislike the baron and are fond of me. The prince has also a great admiration for you. But my correspondent—— Who can that be?"

"Linnartz, of course."

"I rather fancy it is the baroness."

"Yes, that is even more probable."

"And what do you make of it all?"

He spoke jauntily, but Diana saw that the second letter had upset him more even than the one he had received. She realized that with the receipt of these anonymous warnings the critical stage of Olivia's relationship to Andreas had begun. She knew that it behoved her to walk warily, to do her utmost to calm him down in the new emergency, just as she had lulled to rest his very natural misgivings in respect of Andreas and herself. Casting a disdainful look on the two miscreant papers, she exclaimed emphatically:

"Nonsense!"

Gregor was only waiting for this confirmation of his hopes. The expressive word acted like an elixir upon the gayer elements in his character, and he felt light-hearted again. He rose and thrust the letter back in his pocket.

"Going already?"

"I must. Conference." He embraced her passionately and left.

CHAPTER Two

Linnartz to a friend in Berlin.

"October 3rd.

"Dear Eberhard,

"It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen today, for I have a piece of news to tell, which, in the interests of the country, I should be delighted for any one to prove false. Unfortunately, everything which I am now going to disclose is authentic, I have incontestable proof. It is only after having made every possible excuse and looked at the matter in a purely objective way, that I have made up my mind to send in a complaint against a chief whom I personally respect and honour.

"I am sorry, indeed, to have to thrust upon you the uncongenial office of being clerk of the court in this matter. But I see no other way out. As far as I know, you are the only one of my friends I can trust in such a delicate affair, and the only one who is closely associated with the foreign secretary. I shall be as concise as possible.

"Contrary to all expectations, the chief seemed during the last couple of years to have settled down to a quiet and orderly life—of course I may flatter myself that this has been due in large measure to my own example and precept. But since June he has again succumbed to one of his degrading and perilous love-affairs. Last summer a lady suddenly arrived in these parts, Diana de Wassilko by name (though I can find no mention of this 'aristocratic' family in the Almanach de Gotha). Short hair, rides, swims, and has other accomplishments; well-trained in social amenities and able to impose herself. I saw her some years ago in very dubious company in St. Petersburg—from afar, of course, for even in my bachelor days I avoided the company of such women.

"She came with an introduction from the newspaper magnate Scherer, and in a very short time had completely captivated the chief. Soon it was common talk that she had become his mistress, that he had taken a house for her, servants, horses, etc. He goes every day to see her, usually once, sometimes twice, rides over or takes boat. Spends half the day in her company, often stays on through the night.

"If such demoralizing behaviour, such neglect of duty, affected himself only, the whole thing would have to be fought out between him and his wife, the unhappy Countess Olivia. But matters are far more serious. Not only is this person in a position to pass on to Scherer all the information which the chief may divulge in moments of weakness and of passion; she is now taking an active part in affairs herself! On the very best authority I learn that recently by cunning and craft she induced one of the secretaries of the foreign office here to hand over copies of letters, among them one to the French embassy which she entrusted to the chief. These papers, because they proved beyond a doubt the friendly feeling existing between this government and France (a friendship the chief has always been sceptical about), have not been shown to me or to the other gentlemen at the embassy, nor have they been placed in the archives. We have, therefore, every indication of the formation of a State within the State.

"Not until recently did the matter of the stolen information come to the ears of the foreign minister here, although even now he has no exact knowledge of the affair. He sounded the chief, and demanded the expulsion of the culprit. Of course the chief played the innocent as in duty bound. Not only did he say nothing about handing over the culprit for the local authorities to deport if they deemed it expedient; he actually went out of his way to shield her, deploring that the suspicion of such an intrigue could have arisen in connexion with a person who was not engaged in political activities and who was neither competent nor willing to dabble in matters of the kind. As the chief took up such an attitude it was impossible for the minister to insist, but since then he has been telling all the foreign representatives that the chief is 'conniving with a notorious spy.' Le Chat and Sir Henry are naturally delighted, and are making the best of their opportunities. When the minister tried to sound me in the matter, I was evasive as duty demanded. But the conflict between loyalty to my chief and loyalty to my country is so great that I am no longer certain if I am serving the fatherland honourably while shielding an erring official, even when that official is my own official superior. To add to my difficulties, now that Eckersberg is about to leave in order to take up his inheritance, I have no one at the embassy to give me moral support. All these reasons have led me, my dear Eberhard, to confide in you, and I beg you to follow your own counsel as to whether you keep silence or whether you hand on the intelligence to the most appropriate quarter.

"I wish you and your dear wife all the best the world has to offer. Heartiest greetings from my household to yours.

"Your old friend, "ERNST LINNARTZ."

Scherer to Diana.

"October 20th.

"The last dispatch I sent (it was smart of you to guess so promptly whom I meant by 'Owl'!) will have shown you how matters are shaping themselves in the duel between policehound and greyhound. The former has chosen E. N. for his father confessor. E. N. being a notorious gossip, the news leaked out within twenty-four hours after the receipt of policehound's letter and became the talk of club-rooms and editorial offices. That was only to be expected. But I was uneasy when I found no mention at all of the matter in the government organs, for this indicated that some big coup was about to be dealt, and was not to be hampered in any way by ill-timed accusations, no matter how savoury the morsel might be.

"In addition, the foreign secretary made no attempt to speak to me when we shook hands at the opening of an exhibition here. But on Tuesday I had a call on the phone. Would I go to see him? I allowed two days to elapse.

"His reception was cordial, and the look of hostility from his owl's eyes was balm to my heart, since it was cast upon myself! He laid the 'original document' before me—of course it only consisted of items from L's letter. I need hardly say that your name cropped up as well. He was careful to stress the fact that he knew I had not sent you out there in any official capacity; at the same time there was undeniable proof of correspondence between you and myself. When he saw that I did not demur, he came to the point. He requested me—there was no challenge in his voice, he spoke in a friendly way without rising—to recall you. I feigned astonishment. Then he got up, pushed his left shoulder forward, leaned his head towards it—his attitude had something akin to one I know so well in yourself—and said:

"'You refuse?'

"'Have you any other complaint against my employees?'

"'Only against this one. You refuse?'

"I'm sorry, Sir.'

"'You feel bound...'

"'I cannot dismiss an employee who has carried out her duties admirably, has sent most valuable reports, has established the best of relations with those I wish to have good relations with—I cannot dismiss such an employee merely on account of a denunciation, the subject of which has not come to your ears through the proper channels and whose object cannot be defended in any way.'

"'We know all there is to know.'

"'And what about the ambassador? Is he unaware of the denunciation?'

"'In all probability.'

"Does Your Excellency not intend to ask him directly?'

"'To ask him would mean to recall him.'

"'And His Majesty...?'

"'Knows nothing as yet.'

"'Has Count Münsterberg no friend who could let him know of the accusation, so that he himself might demand an inquiry?'

"'I know of none—unless you yourself...'

"'I have not the honour to call myself his friend. Suppose I ask the lady if she were willing....'

"'Would the lady be prepared to imperil her own position by communicating things that were to her disadvantage?'

"'One can but try.'

"'You are willing?'

"I will send her an account of our conversation, without comment.'

"'That's very good of you, but your trouble will be vain.'

"'We'll see.'

"I have given you this exchange with much detail, so that you may be in a position to decide whether you will undertake to tell the count what is afoot against him, and if so how much you will disclose.

"For my part I would advise you against doing this, and am only sending you this letter by a trustworthy messenger in order that you may take your bearings. The count will of course want to exculpate himself immediately, and might injure himself a great deal more by so doing than if he kept silent. His position must be uncommonly strong, seeing that none of his superiors ventures to denounce him.

"Business affairs by ordinary post. I can't get to that before Sunday.

"Yours very truly, "SCHERER."

CHAPTER THREE

In November the major came to replace Eckersberg. Ever since the foreign secretary had given him the hint last summer he had lived expectant of such a turn in his fortunes, and had hoped that by some stroke of good luck he might be transferred to the spot where she who had inspired him to seek advance in his profession had taken up her quarters. Not for nothing, he thought, had he been christened Felix! When, one morning, he had read in the paper the news of old Count Eckersberg's death he took the omen as a gift from the gods. He moved heaven and earth, setting friends and relatives in motion on his behalf, and he had finally thrust himself on the minister's notice one evening at a dinner party. When, a week later, his chief asked him whether he would like the post, he accepted with rapture.

Yet he had a presentiment that his lady, in spite of his fair hair and the many memories he and she shared in common, would never be weaned from her allegiance to that grey-haired man down south, whose mistress she was said to be, and who was said even by his enemies to be endowed with a most attractive personality.

The major's first two visits to Diana had not escaped the notice of his colleagues at the embassy. He had refrained from seeing any more of her, partly because he was overwhelmed with work, and partly he was deterred by the fear of meeting his chief at Diana's villa. But the baron's party, which consisted only of Linnartz and his wife, though they thought they had now secured Olivia's adherence, had quickly discerned in his visits confirmation of their suspicions of Diana's "demi-monde" antecedents.

From the very first the Linnartzes, man and wife, had looked upon the major as a possible enemy. Felix, whose natural jealousy had been aroused by visions of Gregor and Diana perpetually together, had entered upon his new post with a feeling of animosity towards his chief. But the longer he worked for the ambassador, the more he came to like the man, to feel a growing sympathy for him. Gregor's fresh vitality appealed to him, also his waywardness, and his comradely way of treating his subordinates. The embassy being a household divided against itself, the major's antagonistic reception by one faction, and the cordial welcome extended to him by the other, helped to define the newcomer's position. He made himself an object of suspicion to the Linnartzes as soon as he called on Diana. Kopp, on the other hand, had mentally rallied to the major's side. Army and navy had greeted one another with a kind of formal cordiality; the two men had recalled the dinner at the club and the homeward walk with Scherer when this very ambassador had come up for discussion. Though at the outset Scherer's name had served as a link between them, it was of Scherer's envoy, of Diana, that both men had thought during their first interview.

The prince was less affable. He could not help wondering what the bond might be between Diana and the major, and how many weeks would elapse before the military attaché would come into collision with the chief. Nevertheless, the major's open-heartedness made a strong appeal—a fact which the prince was careful to keep to himself.

When Gregor had told Diana the name of Eckersberg's successor, she had answered that she knew the major of old. Yet she kept the major's second visit from her lover. A first call could be looked upon as a mere courtesy visit, but how might others be construed? The better she came to know Gregor, the more ardent her love for him had grown, the more she was at pains to spare him anything that might shake his confidence in her, might make him uneasy or agitated. She therefore begged the major not to call again. Felix had looked mutely at her, the woman who had taught him all that was worth knowing, even how to take a rebuff; then he had left the villa like the well-disciplined soldier he was, sad at heart, and yet hopeful that some day he might be allowed to return.

That same afternoon the prince came into the office where the major and Kopp were deep in the study of a document. As he entered, he said banteringly:

"How incredibly industrious you two men of war are. By half past four you'll have saved the Fatherland, I shouldn't wonder! Decrees! Decrees! Decrees! What the devil's it all about?"

"About the amount of crape to be worn at funerals!"

"Va bene!" Then he added with a sigh: "And you went for a long ride this morning."

"Yes, in a southerly direction," answered the major, to whom this observation was addressed.

"Nice place to stay in the summer, eh?"

"A splendid place for a ride," put in Kopp.

Both men wanted to bring the major to a mention of the visits, but he exclaimed airily:

"Yes, splendid."

"The chief knows the road well," said the prince tentatively. "Let's see, how long is it since he took to riding in that direction? Six months?"

The major, who knew when his chief's visits had begun just as well as they, said calmly:

"As long ago as that? Ever since May?"

"No, it must have been July."

"Ah, of course, July."

All three looked relieved as this word was pronounced, like people who had been given an explanation for which they had long been waiting. Each stood pensive for a while, wondering what the others were thinking of. Then Kopp, drumming on the window pane, exclaimed:

"Magnificent woman!"

To which the prince responded:

"Idem est natura et ars."

The major said nothing, but looked inquiringly at the prince. The latter slowly and deliberately put his question:

"Major, have you met Fräulein de Wassilko before?"

Felix pressed his lips together, and hesitated a moment before answering.

"Yes, I had the pleasure—some time ago—slightly..."

His answer coming as it did after too long a pause, the expression which had flitted across his face when the prince had spoken the Latin tag, the agitation he had displayed when adding the word "slightly" a second too late, and leaving it hanging in the air, were enough to tell the prince all he wanted to know. Kopp, on the other hand, was as innocent as ever. The soldier could deceive his comrade, but he could not deceive the diplomat.

The prince had always been devoted to Gregor. What he admired in him was the mixture of energy and sound critical faculty—a rare conjuncture. He had a great respect for Olivia, and yet the way in which Gregor snapped up women and dropped them again with a kind of abrupt geniality made him, the precociously wise young man, feel that here was one who could dominate life as he himself would have given much to be able to do. But it was not until Diana's advent that the prince wholly surrendered to the personality of his chief. Then the marvellous change that had occurred in the count, his recaptured youth which was reflected in all he did and said, confirmed the young man in what had hitherto only been surmise as to the elder's fine capabilities. Linnartz, on the other hand, the prince had always found intolerable, and as soon as the baron's intrigues at headquarters came to his ears he determined more than ever to rally to the count's side. He knew he could rely on Kopp's help. Eckersberg had been an uncertain quantity. But his successor in office had, by this secret visit to Diana, made himself one of their group. He guessed by the major's manner the nature of the bond between Diana and this old friend of hers. What now remained to be discovered was whether the relationship between the two had come to an end as had obviously the one with Andreas, or whether the major had come here in order to oust the new lover.

In the past the prince had done much to shield his chief from the consequences of his own folly, and this time, likewise, he may have been instrumental in burking the effects of Linnartz's denunciation. But a rival might prove dangerous, a rival could do successfully what the baron merely botched, a rival could unearth matters that would bring disaster in their train, a rival alone could achieve his chief's fall. The prince had given much thought to such a possibility ere this. Now, however, he felt that events might crowd upon him at any moment. He must act at once, must infringe his own strict canons of behaviour to find out how the land lay. Kopp's presence was a boon to him, for the captain's earnestness seemed in some sort to excuse his own unusual solemnity. Having thus made up his mind to take the step, he rose from his chair and went over to where the major stood. Kopp turned from the window through which he had been gazing and followed the prince's movement. He was surprised at the strange formality of the prince's manner in addressing the military attaché:

"Major, you have doubtless noticed that there are two factions here which..."

Felix looked at his interlocutor earnestly, drew himself up as if on duty, and answered:

"I belong to this one, Your Highness."

For a moment the prince's right hand itched to go forward and clasp the major's, but his whole nature was so averse to anything that savoured of sentimentality that he overcame the impulse. He therefore said nonchalantly: "Do forgive me for this absurdly melodramatic intervention...."

The door opened, and Linnartz came in.

"The countess has sent me to invite you to take tea with her and my wife. Will you come down, gentlemen?"

As the four men entered Olivia's little boudoir, they saw Andreas sitting on a low stool showing Olivia's son the pictures in a big portfolio and telling the child stories about them. The countess seemed more agitated than usual. Her vexation at having missed an appointment with Andreas, through the blunder of a servant, had brought her inner unrest to the surface. Andreas, too, was in a similar state of nervous irritability, and had sought refuge in the boy's company. Now he wished to rejoin the others, but Clemens pulled him by the sleeve, protesting:

"Don't get up. They are only our own gentlemen."

Every one laughed, and Andreas released himself from the child's hold. The major was introduced to the young poet. As soon as Felix heard Andreas's name, he remembered the story of the dog, which had been told him, and he saw in this new acquaintance yet another man that in some way was connected with Diana. The men drew up in a semi-circle round the countess while she poured out tea. Meanwhile the prince had gone over to the lad who was sitting rather disconsolate after Andreas's desertion. Though quite unused to children, he tried to propitiate the little boy by saying as he took a seat beside him: "Give me a trial, Clemens. I can tell stories too. What have we here? Adam and Eve being turned out of the Garden of Eden. Very unpleasant scene, and all on account of an apple."

"Tell me, what does 'and they knew that they were naked' mean; I've never been able to understand," asked Clemens.

"You're right," answered the prince. "It's a queer story. Baroness, can't you help me out? I'm being put through my catechism!"

He gave up his place to the baroness who had responded to his appeal, and he now joined the circle round the tea-table.

"What has Clemens been up to? I hope he has not been naughty."

"Contrariwise, Countess, eager for knowledge; though perhaps on rather perilous ground."

"May we be told?" asked the countess, who had overheard part of the child's question and wanted to bring the conversation into the erotic sphere—a thing she was usually careful to avoid in mixed society.

"Well he has just been studying the Scriptures with Herr Seeland, and is very keen on knowing about the Fall."

"Come, come," protested Linnartz, while the others laughed. Even Andreas joined in the merriment, lest his uneasiness be observed. But he sought Olivia's eyes, hoping to deter her. She, however, clutched hold of the subject with a kind of irritable despair, saying:

"Well, and how would you explain it, Prince Eduard?"

"I'm the youngest, Countess. You should ask the men of experience who surround you..."

"I am younger still," put in Andreas, hoping even now to turn the conversation away from the subject.

"And what do you think, Youngster?" asked the countess, looking at him, a challenge in her eye, as if no one else was present.

"I can no longer conceive of the idea of sin. I can only feel."

"Well spoken, Doctor," cried the major. "I can only feel!"

Kopp nodded his head in approval.

The prince smiled, and ventured to throw the ball back to the countess, saying:

"After the elucidation we have just had, an elucidation which for brevity matches the Spartan, and for licentiousness is worthy of Sardanapalus, we have a right to ask that you too..."

"Yes, yes, please," chimed in the officers.

All were silent. The countess, who today resembled a cat that has been offended, stared gloomily in front of her, muttering:

"The Fall! As if every pleasure did not contain the germs of bitterness—and yet one wants it all the same!"

The baroness had forgotten the child for a moment, absorbed in what was being said round the tea-table. Now she turned to Clemens again, once more willing to look at the pictures. But the boy, who had followed the baroness's eyes, had likewise heard what was said, and now, puzzled by all these incomprehensible things, he sat mumchance and rigid, taking no further interest in what the baroness was showing him. At last she asked:

"Clemens, what is the matter?"

Then he bent towards her and, as children do when they are telling secrets to one another, said in an exaggerated whisper:

"Bitterness. What is bitterness? Mama used that word twice just the other day when she was upstairs with Herr Seeland."

"Where upstairs?" whispered the baroness in her turn.

"Upstairs in the guest's room, near the balcony."

"When was it?"

"In the afternoon when Papa had gone for his ride. Mama said they were going on to the balcony to see the view, but they were in the guest's room, and I heard them, twice."

"To work," broke in the baron from the other end of the room.

With the countess's strange speech ringing in their ears, the four men made their way back to the office. Linnartz uttered one word:

"Unprecedented!"

Kopp said softly:

"That's what I call nature."

The major said nothing but, without being fully conscious of his own mental process, compared Olivia's outburst with Diana's freedom of speech.

The prince thought:

"Olivia has quarrelled with her only friend, while Diana has attracted three more friends to her side."

When, downstairs in the boudoir, Andreas once more sought the boy's company, Clemens clung to his arm as if to make amends for the betrayal, pulled the young man on to the bench beside him, and glared at the baroness, so recently the recipient of his childish confidence.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Are you taking the sea road?" cried Andreas, as the major suddenly turned his horse's head to the right. "Do you want to ride that way, Major?"

It was a bright, sunny winter's morning, and Andreas had asked Felix to join him. In the early hours, the wind blew chill from the west, but later it dropped, and the days were as mild as in September. The major and the young poet had made better acquaintance after meeting at the club, and the elder man was attracted to the younger on account of the intellectual interests they shared, rather than by Andreas's peculiar character and fantastical way of talking. Above all, however, what effectively bound the major to Andreas was the fact that Diana had known and had loved the youth.

"Yes, let's take the sea road," cried back the major, who was already some distance along it. "I hardly trust my mount's off hind shoe to keep on if we ride over cobbles much longer. What sort of a beast is yours?"

"This is not my own horse," answered Andreas, overhauling him, and endeavouring to push his way to the major's left. But the latter would give no room for such a manœuvre, saying pleasantly:

"Please, no formalities! Anyway it is only seemly that a simple soldier like myself should give the place of honour to the poet. Nay more, have I not heard that you are soon to become consul general?"

The last words brought home to Andreas the fundamental cleavage between his thoughts and that reality which he had made the goal of his life. What would he not give to be consul general here and now! He said resignedly:

"I'll be grey before that day arrives."

"And prospects?"

"They keep putting me off. All I've learned about nations and customs during these many months I could have learned equally well as a mere traveller in no way concerned with seeking an official post."

"Quite possibly," agreed Felix absent-mindedly, for his thoughts had suddenly switched off to other matters. He was thinking: "It is ten o'clock, we are riding along the sea road. Why the devil should I not call on her, seeing that I am not alone..." He calculated the risks, and held his peace.

Andreas was grateful to his companion for not talking. He loved to walk or to ride long stretches at a time, without exchanging a word. Then it was that he felt the thoughts of the two silent friends to be like huntsmen each going his separate way in search of game, getting widely separated. When, at last, one or the other raised his voice, it sounded like a distant horn calling to him in the valley from afar. To the right of him was the water reflecting the sun's rays in quivering columns of light. Ships sailed by, cutting the sparkling pillars in two, and followed by comet-like tails of dancing waters; the paddles of the little steamboats tossed sprays which glinted like a shower of stars; strife and sportiveness rose from the heart of the shining expanse, bringing to the poet's vision an allegory of love. He saw Olivia, majestically proportioned as some being of a primal age, resting on the bosom of the waters, smiling sensuously as the wavelets played on her white body. Like a sea-god he arose, and was about to seize her in his arms, when he heard a voice saying:

"Shall we put our horses to a canter?"

The major's thoughts had been with Diana, recalling the days long past. He felt agitated and disturbed by his reminiscences, and had recourse to the means which he knew from old experience would restore him to calm—a good gallop. But Andreas was vexed at being thus ruthlessly disturbed in his dream which weighed heavy upon him as Olivia's hair. Still, his ambition to make good in the real world, and not to be conquered by it, stimulated him to pull himself together and to put spurs to his horse.

On arriving at the villa quarter they reined in their mounts to a walking pace. Both men looked over to the white house which had so often been in their thoughts. The poet, who did not know the time of the count's visits, having never studied the man's habits, asked himself whether Gregor might not be with Diana at this very moment. The major, for his part, had reckoned up the reasons why the count could not possibly be there at this hour, and had by now determined to venture on the call. "I wonder if she'll be very angry," he asked himself. "Is this a harem, and she an eastern monarch's favourite? Two acquaintances, on a morning ride, stop in front of her villa. Perhaps we do no more than send her a hello as she looks out of the window...."

"You—know Fräulein de Wassilko, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Shall we—we're just passing by—just give her a wave of the hand?..."

"I'd rather not stop."

"Just as you like."

The major was furious. In a trice, he felt antipathy for this young man who was hindering rather than helping. He'd probably suffered at her hands and was afraid of seeing her again. Andreas meanwhile was thinking that the major would very likely deem him a bit of a coward. He had his suspicions as to the "slight" acquaintance the major had professed to have with Diana, remembering that she had once confided to him her weakness for handsome cavalrymen. Might not Felix be the man she had alluded to, and, therefore, a rival claimant to her affections? A few minutes elapsed before he could trust himself to speak.

"It's only that—perhaps..."

"I bet we'll not be coming at an inopportune moment," put in Felix quickly. "Is that all you are afraid of?"

"Yes; what else to be sure?"

"Then I'll take French leave!"

Felix, for whom to wish was to do, rode on, and in a few minutes they drew up by Diana's garden gate. Mary, thinking it was the count, poked her head out of the window, while the manservant was making his way down:

"Can we see Fräulein de Wassilko," Felix called up to Mary.

"I'll go and ask."

A moment later, Diana herself appeared at the window, crying down to them gaily:

"Good morning. Glad to see you. Ali, let the gentlemen in.—I hope neither of your horses is inclined to kick," she resumed when her visitors entered the hall and were shaking hands. "Poor Ali is so afraid of horses that at any sign of restlessness he lets go the bridle, and we have all the trouble of catching the beasts again."

"What a jolly old hunt that would be," laughed the major.

"What'll you take? Whisky, sherry, cognac? These changing temperatures make choice a difficult matter."

She was delightfully self-possessed as she entertained her two old friends. They thought her more charming than ever while she played the hostess, making them at home, ministering to their wants. She was wearing a short, sandy-coloured skirt of a warm material, and over her blouse she had slipped on a jacket of pale lilac silk. Motioning her visitors into arm-chairs, she pulled up a dumpty for her own use. Andreas saw her profile, clear-cut against the blue waters; Felix faced her; neither could catch the expression of her eyes as she glanced now at one and now at the other. She sat there aloof and free as a statue, instinctively yielding to the spirit of independence within her.

"Not to be taken unawares," thought the officer. "Already secure in the rôle she means to play."

"Aloof," thought the poet.

"Queer notion," thought Diana. "I wonder if they came hoping to surprise Gregor. He's not likely to turn up this morning. And if he did?"

Aloud she said placidly:

"How is Countess Münsterberg?"

Her eyes travelled over the water as she spoke, for she did not wish either to look at Andreas or to look through him.

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing her this week. Perhaps Herr Seeland..."

Andreas felt that he was taking part, not so much in a dream, as in some intangible scene conjured up from the world of unreality. An unknown voice seemed to be asking him a question, to which he answered very slowly:

"I believe she is very well."

Diana murmured softly:

"I should very much like to see her again."

Andreas, whose nature responded more readily to plastic transformations than to cold facts of reality, and who was ever prone to merge contrasts into a poetical whole, suddenly threw off his reserve at this sign of Diana's sympathy, and said warmly:

"The countess, I fancy, has taken a great liking to you."

"I should, indeed, be happy if that were so, but can hardly hope that it is. It seems to me that the countess is deceived in herself."

They were interrupted by the entrance of the servant bearing a tray with glasses.

"Now, Major, you'll take whisky, I know," she cried teasingly, for the major had always and emphatically expressed his dislike for the beverage. "Real Old Scotch Whisky, your favourite poison!"

"No thanks! I'll have some of this deliciously fragrant Arab coffee."

"Are you, too, succumbing to the spell of the East? How are negotiations getting on?"

She went over to where Andreas was sitting, and, while the major held forth about Serbia, she placed the tray at Andreas's elbow. Then, taking two bottles of liqueur, she mixed a glass of cognac and Chartreuse and handed it to the young man as if he were a friend of the family whose tastes were well known and whom one was accustomed to serve. Diana had forgotten herself for a moment because she was really interested in what the major was saying, and liked him immensely for the line he was taking in respect of the count. But her spontaneous action had not escaped Felix, who drew his own conclusions, and was even more delighted at having caught Diana out, than at having solved the riddle of her earlier relationship with the poet.

Andreas took no part in the political discussion that ensued. His mind was occupied with Diana's words, so inopportunely cut short, and he spun fanciful tissues with the antitheses which these two women presented. Suddenly he was torn from his dream by a gesture he particularly loved in Diana; she was tossing her head in that audacious way which had always captivated him, and he saw her before him as she really was. Short-kirtled, she stood free and debonair in the centre of the hall, her chin tilted in the air, her curls tossed back, reminding him of the youth portrayed by Antonello da Messina. Again he was aware of her mastery of life, a mastery he admired so intensely as expressed in the statues and pictures, the romances and histories, of the Renaissance. And he said to himself:

"Does she not stand there discoursing about the Serbs as if she were a member of parliament who had been making the same demand for decades? Who could believe that those lips had recited the tenderest verses of Petrarch, and said my own poems, yes, my own poems..." He lost himself in recollections of how those lines of his had been written, the circumstances that had inspired them; and incontinently his thoughts flew back to the enchanted isle.

The sound of horses' hoofs hammered upon his ears, breaking the current of his fantasy. Bustle without, and the noise of neighing as when horses that know one another meet. Then Gregor stood on the threshold.

"May I come in? Am I disturbing you? I was just passing. Came to ask how you were—Good-morning, Major. Ah, Herr Seeland?—Glorious riding weather. How would it be if we all went on a little expedition round to—— Perhaps rather too late—and business..."

"I'm all confusion, Sir," said Felix, "to be caught away from work at so late an hour."

"Pray don't mention it. I'm caught playing truant too. I ought to have been consulting the oracle long ere this for an answer to this morning's dispatches. An almost insoluble riddle, I must confess. What has the sphinx to say about it? And what the poet?"

He was the "mad" Gregor of his youth, tossing his ambiguous words in the air, including all three in his talk, making light of an embarrassing situation with quips and sallies, anecdotes and laughter, putting them at their ease. But he simultaneously scrutinized their faces, took in every detail of table, chair, and stool, to see if anything suspicious lay hidden. Then he looked again at Diana, who had not shown the slightest uneasiness, but had remained her own natural self in spite of the surprise of his sudden appearance. When his first rush of words was exhausted, she fell in with his mood, teased him, retaliated, egged him on with smart repartee, until the major and the poet were bewildered by the concentrated medley of gallantry and mockery, of gaiety and mischievousness, and retired from the scene, leaving the field to a man who was victor even before he entered the arena.

At last the two young men rose to go, and Gregor said, with an abrupt change of manner:

"How are your plans shaping themselves, Herr Seeland? Are you going to be sent travelling? Or are we to have the pleasure of your company among us for some time to come?"

Andreas's reserve once more broke down as he answered:

"If Your Excellency will not consider me a nuisance..."

"Certainly not, my dear Doctor. Anyway you seem to have returned to the country of the muses rather than gone forward into the realm of politics, eh?"

"May I ask why...?"

"The countess has told me you are reading Dante together. I'm fond of the poet myself, at least the first part. Paradise is for me too—what shall I say—too..."

"Innocent, perhaps," put in Andreas, trying in vain to mitigate the sharpness of the words by speaking gently.

"Say, rather, too clear," interposed Diana, who scented danger in the air.

"I—love the rose of heaven," added Andreas defiantly.

"For my part," said Gregor, avoiding Diana's eye, "I'd like to be like Paolo in the region of winds, always flying, flying eternally, with Francesca."

Diana laughed.

"Yes, but then both you and Francesca would to all eternity have your old cavalry sabre stuck into their hearts!"

"Is that so? Was that so? I had quite forgotten about the sword. I've always had the picture of them in my mind as eternally flying. To be flying with Francesca!"

When they were alone again, Gregor looked searchingly at Diana as if awaiting an explanation, as was the custom of this man in his dealings with women. But Diana merely laughed up at him so sweetly that his one desire was to catch her and hug her to him. She, however, kept the table between them, dodging his every approach. At last she took refuge behind the piano whose long tail cut off one of the corners of the room. Before he could catch hold of her she drummed delicately on the case to remind him of the lesson the fair Helen had taught her husband—that he should have knocked before entering, since his coming was unexpected.

Gregor, whose mind had been completely tranquillized by the behaviour of the two men, was in a gay mood. He took his place at the keyboard, struck a few chords, and after a while began playing Chopin's Fantasia-Impromptu. As he played, he kept Diana close to him, his right arm encircling her hips so that he had some difficulty in reaching the keys. Her left arm had slipped round his neck.

As the music echoed through the room, she stood motionless; even her hand had ceased to caress his hair, and lay at rest. The extraordinary rigidity of her body thus pressed so close against him filled him with a vague apprehension as he played, and he looked up at her in alarm. Her head rose above him, the eyes were closed, but around the slightly open mouth was a smile of perfect self-surrender such as he had seen only once before—the morning they had reached the temple. Very cautiously, so as not to rouse her from her trance, only desirous of giving a lead to her thoughts, he quickly let the fantasia peter out into a few chords and cadences which brought him to the Nocturne in F-sharp major.

A new light of interpretation flashed upon him as he played. In the charmed circle of love, he once again heard this melody which had sprung intact from Eros's realm. He pressed his beloved yet closer to his side, laid his grey head against her breast, and he, too, closed his eyes, while his hands continued to play and he forgot that it was he himself that drew the music from the keys. It seemed to him that he was cradled with her upon these swaying passages of sound; as if they lay together dreaming on a cloud while the wind blew around them; as if they were almost sexless beings, united by an intangible tenderness, without ecstasy, without awaking, without strife, without goal....

Voices from outside came to disturb them. Diana sprang away, and Gregor broke off suddenly as Mary came in to say deferentially that her mistress's secretary had arrived. Gregor burst into jovial laughter, exclaiming:

"The fair Helen was right, one should never come unannounced, especially when one is a man of Menelaus's age!"

"Send him to the devil, Mary," said Diana in a rage.

"No, no! Let him be. Show him into the other room," said Gregor. "He need not exactly find me here, you know. Duty calls, as Linnartz would say. I'll leave the field to your secretary, since work claims you. Let's hope you will have some famous revelations from him. I'm off. And may I—tomorrow...?"

"Tonight, come, come back this evening," she cried, still carried beyond herself by those moments of rapturous communion.

Never before had she pleaded for his company, it had always been he who urged. He was taken aback, and stood for a while asking himself whether it were possible that at last her love was unfolding itself like a flower.... He drew her to him.... Did her words imply a surrender she had never yet granted him? ... And he smiled down into her eyes, saying:

"This evening, if you like. Nocturnes in the morning are in any case not quite fair! I'm invited to the Spanish embassy tonight. Never mind, I'll plead a headache, and he can say what he likes in Madrid!"

Diana gazed after him as he rode away.

"I breathed in time to that night-song, and as my bosom rose and fell with the music, his head rose and fell too.... Is his hair grey? ... I did not see any... His kiss and his hand are gentler than the fierce touch of youth.... We hover beyond the starry heights and the depths...."

She wrenched herself away from such musings, and went resolutely through the hall to the room where her secretary awaited her.

"Good-morning! What is the news today?"

Her tone was friendly, and yet distant, as though she were the wife of a minister of State. She dealt with correspondence, with dispatches, questioned the man, discussed affairs with him, then she was silent. Finally she got up, and started dictating:

"Postscript to the dispatch of the 26th. (You can type this afterwards.) I did not receive the report from T. until this morning. As far as my trustworthy sources of information go, we may reckon that the influence of the very able French consul in this province will continue to grow. He is actually responsible for having brought the construction of the railway to a standstill in that locality under pretext of Mohammedan feast-days. We must try and win over his lady, an Armenian, who was once the Wali's...."

CHAPTER FIVE

Since the failure of Linnartz's intrigue, the ambassador's prestige had grown and his position had strengthened. At the same time, while his political opponents were committing one mistake after another, his own plans were maturing and the possibility of a military alliance was in prospect. Events pointed to a fresh crisis, and the grouping of parties around the competing great powers was becoming plainer day by day.

The baroness had long been of opinion that the only way to shake Gregor's position was through the publication of some scandal connected with his private life, some scandal having no political significance, and yet one that could not be ignored. Diana was of no use to her in this field, for Diana was not received in society circles, and could do and say what she liked without compromising any one but herself. At first the Linnartzes had come forward as champions of Olivia's honour, as defenders of the unhappy wife who was being so basely betrayed. But the baroness soon changed her tactics, when she had learned from little Clemens the secret of the countess's relations to Andreas. She was now engaged in thinking out a means whereby the count might become aware of his wife's unfaithfulness, and she calculated that such a revelation would compel the ambassador to resign his post.

Her plans were considerably delayed because just about that time the countess and Andreas were very seldom able to meet. December had come again with its seasonal demands on Olivia; she had purchases to make, and other preparations. Andreas, too, was giving more time to political affairs, for a new attaché had just been appointed who was interested in the young man and took a pleasure in initiating him into his work. He had been sorely troubled that morning at Diana's house: her gentleness, the friendliness with which, all unconsciously, she had served him as of old, the frank comradeliness of her gesture as she shook hands with him; then Gregor's sudden apparition in the hall, the way he stood beside the woman who seemed so obviously to belong to him, the hint he had given that he would like Andreas to clear out; and, finally, the acerbity of his own reply to this twofold rival of his—all these things reacted upon his irritated nerves and filled him with perplexity. To add to his troubles he was now more or less cut off from Olivia, and no longer able to find solace as often as he wished in his beloved's arms.

Gregor, on the other hand, was flourishing in every way. He had succeeded in giving a good turn to affairs in the Balkans, and this success was a fertile ground for the planning of fresh political victories. The growing consciousness of his own power fired his creative energies to put forth of their best. When Diana had told him of the plot against him, and of Scherer's refusal to do the foreign secretary's bidding, he had sprung to his feet, had wanted an inquiry to be made as to his own actions. Thus far his superiors' prognosis had been fulfilled. But what the foreign secretary could not foresee, and what even Scherer had failed to estimate correctly, was the mutual confidence that existed between Diana and Gregor, and the influence Diana wielded in consequence of Gregor's trust. She had never to keep anything from him, had fearlessly told him all that troubled her; and she could show him how good had been Scherer's advice that he should keep silent, seeing that after all he was the stronger.

The evening after this talk, in which the courses of their destinies seemed to draw very near, both sharing in a common gloom and a common splendour, Gregor's passion for this strange and wonderful woman deepened and broadened. While they discussed the details of the intrigue directed against them both, and realized the extent of the danger they had been exposed to, their will to go on living and to conquer life became firmer and had mutual reactions and interactions upon the reserves of energy with which to face the world.

Although Diana had, in the early days of their love, yielded to Gregor rather than given herself spontaneously, in the course of many starry nights shared together she had come to depend on him as a young sapling depends on its post for support. He, the artist in love, had extended the spiritual scope of the adventure into wider and ever widening circles. In the nights that followed that night in the tent at the foot of the mountain, he had guided her with the sure strokes of an accomplished oarsman in the stream of undreamed delights. Vaguely and as from afar, she felt that this love was driving her towards a high-water mark in her life.

Diana stood before her tall mirror smartening herself up, and smiling as she did so at the thought: "It is not for him!" It was New Year's Eve, and the prince had invited her to a little supper party. His letter, at once reserved and gallant, the way in which he commented upon this same letter when he called at her house next day, his manner when asking whom else he might invite—all this had been done in so friendly a spirit that she felt she could not refuse. Now she stood in an old-gold evening gown before her glass, trying the effect of a golden ribbon in her hair. In days gone by she had been fond of such an ornament, but tonight she pulled the snood this way and that, unable to get the effect she wanted. At last she threw the thing away from her, took a few steps backward, looked at herself from this new vantage point, and, finally, decided to wear the ribbon. She was always chary of adornment, so contented herself this evening with a gold brooch set with three large topazes, living stones, two as it were awake while the third slumbered.

Coming into the prince's little drawing-room, her golden fillet created quite a sensation among the three men, although the major had known her to wear such an ornament in days gone by. He could not resist reminding her of those times by a gentle hint:

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle wear a hair-band before!"

"Nor have we," said Kopp.

"A golden coronal as for the wedding of a god," exclaimed the prince as he led her into dinner.

"I don't care for weddings. Dreadful affairs. Even the banquets of the gods in Homer seem to me grotesque," protested Diana.

"And yet such things may sometimes be very pleasant," said Kopp, thereby earning a friendly glance from Diana, who loved the man for his solemn way of dealing with the merest trifle.

"As a matter of fact," argued Felix, "we none of us are in a position to judge, seeing that marriage still lies in the unknown future so far as we are concerned."

"Unquestionably," put in the captain, while simultaneously a deprecating "Oh" came from Diana and the prince.

"In that case we'd never be allowed to pass judgment.—The law should be: Never marry—even when your grand-daughter clings beseeching to your knee!"

They all laughed at the prince's sally. Diana felt very genially disposed towards her host, each flower got a word of praise, each dish a laudatory comment. Indeed the whole place was charming in its miniature way.

"Since we have now both sung the praises of bachelorhood, it is meet that, as a woman, I add my regret at your resolve. A woman could be very happy in this house, which your yourself manage so admirably."

The two other guests applauded Diana's words, but the prince was determined to give a whimsical turn to the conversation, so he said:

"I attributed to you, Mademoiselle, a taste for light foods, ragouts, fancy bread, pasties, and souffles. And I hope your sons, gentlemen, will be exclusively fed by injections!"

"What do you use those exquisite Viennese bowls for? Or it is Schumann ware?" Diana turned the little plate over as she spoke.

"The backside gives us a foretaste of beauty to come," said the major thoughtlessly, and he hastened to remedy the false step by adding: "A connoisseur need only see a graceful figure from behind, he knows then what to expect."

Diana and the prince had been studying the mark on the china while the major blundered. Now the prince took up the point:

"Just as among the aristocracy, my dear Major. The coat-of-arms must first tell us of a nobleman's worth!"

Felix laughed somewhat wryly. His pride of birth made such an aspersion unsavoury. Yet he did not venture to protest, seeing that the prince's family was far older and far higher in the social scale than his own. Kopp, too, as a man of plebeian origin, held his peace, for he was well aware how touchy these aristocrats were when their democratic principles were openly approved of by a commoner.

Diana alone took the prince boldly to task:

"And yet Your Highness knows very well that armorial bearings do not make the man."

The prince looked at her delightedly, for any contradiction that helped the flow of conversation was welcome to him.

"You are right, Mademoiselle. But you speak positively and enigmatically, just as if you were drawing up a list of birthday honours in that brain of yours beneath its golden fillet—and certainly no princely diadem would hold its own beside your simple band."

With an unexpected gesture Diana tore off the ribbon, and declared hotly:

"I do not want a diadem! I am free!"

The three men looked at one another, and then at her as she lifted her chin in the air and shook out her locks.

Kopp once more was overcome with amazement as he contemplated this free-born nature, which made a strong appeal to his seafarer's heart. The major recognized the Diana he had known of old, the woman who had, by one look, filled his heart with courage and sent him along the highroad to fine achievement. The prince saw his first impression confirmed; he felt that he had before him an exemplar of his contention that, in some inexplicable way, certain natures, though they possess no genealogical tree, contain within themselves the germs of power, are, in fact, born rulers.

Diana who, after an outburst of this kind, was ever anxious to dissimulate its full meaning, beamed upon her companions, her smile effectually melting the haughty and wrathful expression her words had conjured up. Indeed, she was a little astonished at the effect she had created, and hastened to break the spell of silence which had fallen upon the company.

"All clear now?" she asked merrily.

The prince raised his glass and, though not, as a rule, fond of formalities, looked upon the occasion as a propitious one for a little friendly ceremony.

"Pereat vitta! Vivat vita!" he exclaimed clinking glasses with Diana.

All the guests followed suit. Then came a silence, during which each of the three was meditating the significance of the words. At length the prince said:

"Vitta, vittae, second declension, the sacerdotal fillet, which I may be allowed to recall to your memory, Gentlemen. Undeserved gift of the gods that this band should have come to my mind at a decisive moment."

"For my part," said Kopp, ruefully passing his hand over his bald head, "I am excluded from wearing my hair in the classical fashion usque ad finem I fear!"

"I, too, am being deforested," laughed the major. "We're all beaten in that respect by the chief."

As he uttered the last word, the three men simultaneously raised their eyes from their plates and looked at one another. The mention of Gregor's name acted like a signal they were all awaiting. But the prince, uncertain as to how Diana might be feeling about it, hurriedly changed the subject.

"I beseech you, Mademoiselle, another mouthful of my vol au vent! It is stuffed with pure south-east! I had the recipe from my great-grandmother, who had saved a few from the Confederation of the Rhine. This? A light Assmannshauser, not, unfortunately, a '93, but an '87—a year when mother sun fulfilled her maternal duties to perfection."

The talk ran upon old Rhenish. The captain had once found on board a sailing vessel the oldest wine of the century; it was so bitter that in the end all those who had partaken of it challenged one another to a fight. The major had a tale to tell of the three last bottles that remained of a present Old Fritz had made to his regiment. Diana, too, had her contribution to make.

"Do you know Etna? All wines grown on volcanic soil have fire within them. Lacrimæ Christi is one of the tamest. From Etna by way of Falernian to Stromboli, we get a rising scale of interest. The climax is Stromboli, but that wine is to be shunned."

"Why?"

"Because it makes the drinker mad."

"And—is that a thing to be shunned?" The major was still hoping to draw her out. "Could we not imagine that certain wines, let us say, old, but not too old, medium-dry Palugyai, would confer a boon if they sent us crazy?"

He did not venture to look at Diana as he spoke, hoping to remind her of an evening they had spent together in the former days. She took her revenge adroitly:

"Forbidden fantasies, Major. You must take precautions against any further deforestation!"

"How's that, is alcohol supposed to make the hair fall out?" and the prince ran his fingers over his fair head.

"In that case the chief must be a total abstainer," cried the major, trying to get a rise out of Diana.

This second reference to Gregor made it extremely difficult to turn the conversation once more on to dishes and wines. The men were nonplussed, but Diana said quite simply:

"Yes, he has a very nice head of hair."

"Twenty years ago he is said to have wrought havoc with fair ladies' hearts when he sat playing the piano and tossing his locks. My father used to tell me about him," said the prince.

Diana, who was determined not to lose her presence of mind among these men whom she knew to be her friends, took the prince up readily.

"Yes, he must have been a very different man in the days when he earned his name of 'mad Gregor.'"

"He must have been irresistible when he was young," rejoined the major.

"Even today, he scuds under full sail," said the captain.

"Perhaps it was not until he grew older that he became really interesting," added Diana calmly.

The men were attentive. They went forward cautiously, as if they were conspiring together.

"Interesting? Many people are that," hazarded the prince. "But Münsterberg—he seems to have some traits of Prince Louis Ferdinand rather than..."

"I venture to disagree," interrupted Diana.

"Why?" asked the three men simultaneously.

The prince laid his fruit-knife gently on his plate, the major leaned forward, the captain pushed his chair back a little way. Diana held a review of the six eyes that were fixed upon her. Then, speaking earnestly, she said:

"Youth seems to me to be the most rapturous time in a man's life, but only when he is sure of dying young, like our charming prince, or living to fade away as so many. The count, however, has grown so greatly in importance with the passage of the years, that I am inclined to believe a brilliant and superficial youth may..."

The men made no reply, so that her last words were left floating in the air until the prince made up his mind to blow them away.

"Does Mademoiselle fancy the count may enjoy a long life?"

"I did not say so."

"Since he has only now arrived at the point where his life's work and fundamental ideas have a chance of bearing fruit, may we not conclude that you had that in mind?"

"I make no prognosis, Your Highness, I am merely taking a backward glance."

"True. I hope you'll forgive me! But all the same, prognosis is extraordinarily interesting...."

"Yes, let's have your prognosis," cried the officers who had listened with keen attention. It was as if all three attributed the power of second sight to this strange woman opposite them. Again they urged:

"Your prognosis, please!"

Diana did not laugh, although the droll effect of this trio of voices tickled her sense of humour. She gazed in front of her, peeled off a long tongue of skin from her Jaffa orange, and said in a low voice, her eyes now fixed upon the fruit in her hand:

"I hardly know if it is fair to wish that a man who has remained so young should live to be old."

She sat silent now, not letting them into the secret of what had moved her. Her tone was strangely sad, and she had seemed, rather, to be speaking to herself than to her friends. A veil of melancholy fell upon the little company. The prince, remembering his duties as host, sprang up to dispel it. The others followed his example. All stood, their raised glasses in their hands, while he proposed a toast.

"It is New Year's Day! We will drink to the health of our honoured chief, Gregor Count of Münsterberg!"

The three men leaned over the table to clink glasses with Diana.

CHAPTER SIX

"Fancy a child of eleven reading such learned books!"

"I'm twelve," corrected Clemens, swinging his legs. "Don't you know that even now?"

"A thousand pardons," said Linnartz, bowing in mock reverence.

"And you? You must be at least a thousand," teased the child.

Gregor, who as usual after lunch had taken up the day's paper, drew the lad towards him.

"What makes you think the baron is a thousand years old?"

"Because he always treats me as if I were a kid. He's older than you, isn't he?"

"The other way about."

"How old are you, Papa?"

"Very old," answered Gregor evasively.

The boy continued to lean against his father's knee for a while, pensive and silent. Then, turning to Andreas, he asked:

"And you, Herr Seeland, how old are you?"

"Clemens, be quiet," said Olivia who had taken a seat in the background. "I told you only the other day that Herr Seeland is twenty-six years old."

Gregor, who had fallen into a brown study, roused himself at these words.

"Twenty-six," he repeated, and covered Andreas with his eyes.

"Yes, already, Excellency."

"Already? Then what is left for me to say, my dear Doctor?"

"I do not know. But when you were six-and-twenty did you not likewise say 'already'?"

"Never!"

"Were you so mature? Did your plans so satisfy you that you felt no uneasiness?"

"I was nothing but a junior barrister at the time. Yet such an idea would never have crossed my mind. Uneasiness as to my plans? As to a pretty wench, yes, but as to my plans? I hadn't any!"

"Strange," murmured Andreas.

"You are disappointed? Really, you take life too seriously."

"Can one take it too seriously?" interposed Olivia from her corner.

"I should like to say," Linnartz's strident voice was heard vociferating, "that he who always endeavours to..."

Gregor's eyes had passed over the baron to Olivia:

"It is well that we mortals should try to live our lives without exclamation marks. At least women, who are incapable of renouncing their dreams..."

"No," said Olivia coldly.

"... and can only find comfort in the poets," concluded Gregor, smiling at Andreas with a challenge in his eyes. "They have to live on dreams, unless they choose to scramble after the illusion of effective action. Had I adopted a poet's—beg pardon, a composer's—career, I should not have spent my time dreaming."

"What would you have done, Sir, if I may ask?" said Gregor's victim.

"Worked! Worked with feverish energy. Every day and all day. Yes. Perhaps then at six-and-twenty I might have felt uneasy lest I could not accomplish what I had set myself to do. Still, every man to his own temperament!"

He took leave of Olivia and the poet, and disappeared with Linnartz into his study.

Olivia sent the child away to its schoolroom. Then, turning to Andreas, she said:

"He has become your foe."

"And yours."

"He's been that these many years," she answered bitterly.

Ever since the baroness had learned what she wanted to know from Clemens, her husband, acting on her advice, had kept a note of the days when Andreas came to the house. His surveillance was an easy matter, for he had merely to ring and ask the servant how his mistress was, an act of ordinary courtesy. Then he would say:

"Is the countess at home?"

"The countess is upstairs reading with Herr Seeland."

He had noticed that the visits had mostly taken place during the count's absence from home, while Gregor was taking his afternoon ride, or away at Diana's. Today, the count had asked Linnartz to his study to run through some papers that had been accumulating, and the baron was determined not to let him escape this time. This "could not be postponed," that "could not be postponed"; he was untiring in finding important documents that needed discussion, needed Gregor's signature. An hour went by; half an hour more. Still the baron brought forward other important matters. At last Gregor lost patience.

"Just one thing more, Excellency, I must beg you to give me your decision. A moment," and he disappeared, apparently to fetch a document from his own office downstairs. But he had merely gone to make his usual inquiry, and, having received the hoped-for answer, he came jubilantly back again.

"It's the question of finding accommodation for the older archives. We're up to the ceiling with the stuff downstairs, and you once suggested, Excellency, that we might find room for them in your own apartments...."

"Certainly, certainly," said Gregor rising. "That will be all right. You can get to work on it as soon as you like."

"I could not do it entirely on my own responsibility. The dividing-up of the room which has hitherto been used for domestic purposes. I beg Your Excellency to show me just how you would like it arranged."

"Must it be done today?"

"As you like, Sir," said Linnartz, playing the faithful subordinate.

His chief thought: "What does the fellow mean by shrugging his shoulders like that?"

Aloud, he said:

"All right, come along. Which room had you in mind, the one where we used to put up guests, and perhaps the one with the balcony?"

"If the countess has no objection, it seems to me that they would be the most convenient."

Linnartz's heart was all of a flutter, for the count invariably went upstairs two at a time, and this pace was rather beyond the baron's capacities. Above all, however, he was excited at the expectation that his plans were about to be crowned with success—a success he had so long been hoping and longing for. He was thinking: "It's a sure thing, they can't escape now. Please God they will not simply be reading together on the balcony!" As he drew near the door he was on tenter-hooks. The count, who was blissfully unaware of his companion's agitation, thought: "How pleasantly these rooms are situated, so cut off from the rest of the house! If only Diana had come here as Olivia's guest...."

Linnartz opened the door and drew aside to allow his chief to pass in first. Thank God, the room was empty; they must be next door; and while he followed Gregor into the first room he glanced over at the door leading to the next. There, he knew, his victims must be. He wondered if they had locked themselves in. An unwise thing to do! His lascivious imagination conjured up what might be going on there, the disordered attire, rumpled hair. Would they hear steps approaching, voices speaking? Gregor was saying:

"The folios can be stacked up here ... tables as may be necessary... That will be all right...."

"And in the next room, Excellency?"

"Of course, the same arrangement as here."

Gregor went towards the door. Linnartz, with a remnant of decency, remained behind. Gregor opened the door. Linnartz trembled. Not a sound.

"Why, it's quite dark here," said Gregor. "The blinds are down. Where's the switch?" His hand travelled on the wall. He turned on the light.

One second of abysmal silence went by. Two seconds. Three. Linnartz peered in from behind. He saw Olivia on a divan, propping herself up on her hand, while Andreas stood opposite her, hard pressed against the wall. Both, blinded by the sudden light, had raised a hand to shield their eyes, stretching it out towards the electric globe thus all unconsciously assuming an attitude of shame. As if suddenly turned to stone, the count stood in the doorway, a black shadow against the staring lamp.

Andreas was the first to recover his wits; he had foreseen the disaster as soon as the voices came through the door and was therefore better prepared than the others. He now took two steps towards the count, and in a hoarse voice he began:

"Count..."

The spell was broken. All three moved. Olivia got up and stood behind Andreas, looking at her husband with haughty and hostile eyes whose expression was colder than he had ever seen before. At the same time Gregor marched upon Andreas with uplifted fist. Whilst almost simultaneously Linnartz sprang towards him from the rear, holding him back, and whispering in a warning voice: "Excellency!"

Another pause, not so long as the first, ensued. Then the count turned half round and said in a low voice, tense with wrath:

"Go!"

Andreas made an apology for a bow to the countess, and, passing Linnartz, moved towards the door. But the count, who by now had guessed the part Linnartz had played, was filled with so great a loathing for the intriguer, that even now he wished to shield Olivia against him. He, therefore, slowly left the room, closing the door after him as he went.

That same evening the major and the captain called upon Andreas at his hotel, and presented him with the count's challenge. As they turned to go away, Othello pushed open the bedroom door and sprang towards the strangers. His master seized him by the collar, and it was as much as Andreas could do to hold the door back while the two men made their exit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Gregor! Please, no more," pleaded Diana softly as she shook her curls. "My lips are worn out, and I shall never be able to kiss again!"

"A thousand times more—and me, only me—until we die."

He threw himself upon her and looked deep into her eyes.

"Brown, deep brown. Any red in them? The red of a deer? No, a falcon. Did your father know beforehand what you would grow up to be that he chose the name Diana?"

"If you will let me go, I will tell you all about it."

With the swift movement of a stripling, he sprang up from the wide bed, slipped into his dressing gown which he wrapped round him, tying the cord with the same care with which, as lieutenant, he had buttoned up his uniform tunic, pushed his fingers through his hair, and flung himself into the big arm-chair by the fire. Holding his hands out towards the blaze, he spoke softly to her over his shoulder, a playful note in his voice.

"Diana."

"Gregor."

"No, say it the way you did that first time when you were riding."

"Gregor."

He laughed.

"Go on, tell me all about it."

"Well, it happened over there in Macedonia," she began, bringing a footstool towards the hearth, and sitting down on it at his feet. "My father, you must know, is very wise; he can interpret dreams, understands about magnetic currents, has studied Swedenborg and Leonardo...."

"The portrait in that portfolio is...?"

"Yes, it is he. He told me he had believed my mother would die in giving birth to me, for he thought I was going to be a boy, and he knew that if she gave birth to a boy she would die. So firm was his conviction, that he was going to call me Tristan, because Tristan's mother, too, had died at his birth. When I turned out to be a girl, he said to himself: She will have many masculine elements in her make-up, so I'll call her Diana. Five years later my brother came into the world, and that same night my mother passed away."

She ceased. Gregor's hand lay lightly on her head. She seemed suddenly to have become agitated, her thoughts elsewhere as she prodded the wood in the fireplace. The logs fell apart, and he had to gather them together, very cautiously, so as not to disturb her as she rested her head on his knee.

"Are you cold?" she asked after a while. "Where had I got to?"

It was not her habit to be so absent-minded. Yet this night she had constantly been distrait. Could she have something on her mind? Was she frightened? He tried to shake off his thoughts. But he had come near the truth. Diana was filled with an anxiety which she would have hidden from him had she been able. Before his arrival, when she had received a tiny note from the major telling her what had taken place, she had thought: "The feeling of security is what makes the victor! If he is confident, I shall certainly do nothing to shake his courage." Yet when she saw him so self-reliant, in the mood of a man who has at last become master of some unpleasant perturbation, her own doubts had been laid to rest. Again she tried to rouse herself from her meditations. She turned her eyes towards him and said tenderly:

"Are you cold, Gregor?"

"Why should I be?—Well, your mother died. You told me something about her before. She was beautiful."

"Yes, but do you know what she was? Shall I tell Your Excellency a secret?"

She smiled as she addressed him thus formally, and looked up at him with the inscrutable air of the professional story-teller.

"I hear and obey," he said, smiling back at her.

They sat silent. An atmosphere of security seemed to envelop them, such as they had never experienced before, and had never thought it possible to achieve. Peace and contentment coupled with a slight feeling of lassitude pervaded their bodies and their minds, as they settled down in the comfortable warmth of the log fire. Had they not lain for long in the ardour of love's embraces?

"My great-grandmother, or, rather, her mother, held the crown of Poland concealed within her house. It was in the days following one of the partitions. The fugitive king—or maybe he was only the pretender—in any case he was the son of the old king—came to her estate in order, secretly, to kiss the royal crown. The lady was very beautiful, and she was a widow. Romantic as were the kings of those days, after kissing the crown he kissed its lovely guardian, and thus it was that she gave birth to my grandfather. My family has always tried to pooh-pooh the old legend, but I have positive proof of its veracity. We still have the medallion he gave her on the morning when he bade farewell. The features on the medallion are identical with those of the picture which hangs in the museum at Rapperswyl, where all the Polish monarchs hang in rows. Does the story please you?"

"And so you've got mighty ancestors too. I am overwhelmed with it all. What more can you have? Yours is youth, and beauty, and intelligence—and now you have added to all this, ancestors that wore the kingly crown." He looked down at her with paternal ecstasy.

"You are as gallant in your talk as the lovers were in the old romances," she laughed up at him.

"The style has stuck to me from my youth," he answered ironically. "My mother was not nearly such a grand lady as yours, but she, too, was a beautiful woman."

"Did she die young?" No sooner had she asked the question than she thought: "It is strange how my mind dwells on the idea of death, tonight."

"Haven't I told you? This was the manner of her dying:—I was about seven-and-twenty at the time. She had been ailing for a long time, and her home life was not happy. Well, one day I got a wire: 'Come at once, Mother very ill.' It so happened that on the day previous I had received my first order, the Danebrog cross—of course I had not deserved it, I just chanced to be at dinner with the Danish prime minister with whom we were negotiating at the time. There are few really pretty decorations in our country, so that a nicely enamelled cross, rather cheap to be sure, but with a quite charming blue-and-white ribbon, would naturally attract a good deal of comment. At home I found my mother in bed, very feeble. I had always been rather a handful, never made a success of anything—except music, and escapades, and, again, music. Father's best hope for me was a job in the orchestra at some spa or other. But Mother always stood up for me. She used to say: 'Do let the youngster be, he'll make good in the end, never fear.' So when I bent over her as she lay dying, I showed her the cross on my breast, my first decoration. She fingered it gently and said nothing. Then, suddenly, she pressed it to her lips, kissing it as if it were a crucifix. Tears rolled down her temples, wetting the pillow. She said: 'Thank you, Gregor, I have always had faith in you. Now you can prove to your father and the rest of the world that I was right.' She put her arm round my neck—and soon she had passed away, holding my cross in her hand."

Diana had risen to her feet as he spoke, and now he bowed his grey head, resting it on her hands. She, too, was profoundly stirred. A look of ageless compassion came over her face as she gazed down on this man whom nature had endowed with physical beauty, and an intellect bordering on genius. He who had made himself the master of the art of dissembling as well as of self-control, was nevertheless, although thirty years had now elapsed since the tragical event he was recalling, broken at its recollection. Was he really sobbing? She felt that at this moment the restraint he had exercised over himself during the last twenty-four hours was suddenly broken down, and that this overwhelming grief was a tardy and unexpected reaction from the shock of yesterday's discovery.

"Gregor," she whispered tenderly laying her head against his so that the brown and the grey locks mingled. "Gregor, I am here."

"Stay—by—me—Diana."

The words were a new revelation to her of the man's loneliness. Suddenly he sprang up, pushed his hair back, hastily wiped his eyes, and said with forced joviality:

"I'm sorry, what a fool I've been! Last time, ten, twelve years ago I said to myself that three duels were a good number, and it would be well to stop at that. Apparently there's to be a fourth. That's a handsome number, too. And even if there had to be ten," his voice rang out into the room, "I should fight them all to protect Olivia from slander."

The first time during all these months he had ever uttered Olivia's name in Diana's presence! Too late he realized what he had done. He rushed over to where she stood, seized her hands and covered them with kisses:

"Forgive me—my darling—beloved—Diana—forgive me."

"What have I to forgive?" she asked earnestly. "Is it not a fine thing that you wish to shield her for her own sake, and not merely because it happens to be the custom?"

"And Linnartz, what do you make of him?"

"He's been trying to do it for some time."

"To do what?"

"Bring about your fall, Gregor."

"There are other ways...."

"Did he not try them—in vain?"

"Was the baroness working with him do you think?"

"Undoubtedly."

"The brutes! But when all is over—— Next week I've got to go to court for the birthday celebrations; I shall be in Berlin and shall demand his removal—even if I have to make a cabinet question of it."