Pimpernel and Rosemary, Baroness Orczy [i have read the book a hundred times .txt] 📗

she had plenty of time. And the whole conspiracy, whatever it was, had been clumsily engineered and would certainly prove futile.

The conspiracy! Rosemary could not think of that. Yet when she did it would mean such a terrible heartache that the whole world would become a blank. Peter blotted out of her life. That is what it would mean when she regained the power to think. It would come to her probably in the train, travelling alone across Europe, hurrying to nullify work done by Peter⁠—shameful, despicable work that would sully the reputation of a pariah. The work of a spy, of hands tainted with ill-gotten wealth! Rosemary’s gorge rose at the thought. The conspiracy would prove futile⁠—there was plenty of time to subvert it⁠—but it was an evil, noisome thing that had been. It had existed⁠—and Peter had given it birth!

Peter!

Never again could the world be bright and beautiful. The thing was so loathsome that it would taint with its foulness everything that Rosemary had up to this hour looked on as sweet and sacred and dear. She herself would remain noisome: a body to execrate, since it had once lain passive and willing in Peter’s arms, since her lips still retained the savour of his kiss.

Rosemary went out into the village as far as the post office. She wrote out her telegram to the editor of the Times and asked whether it could be sent out immediately. In order to stimulate the zeal of the postmistress she emphasised her instructions with a hundred lei note. The postmistress smiled and thanked the gracious lady for the note, and she promised that she would send the telegram off within the next few minutes. Then, as soon as Rosemary had gone out of the stuffy little office and disappeared down the village street, the woman rang up at the Imrey Palace at Cluj and asked to be allowed to speak with His Excellency the General.

XXXIV

Rosemary’s wire was repeated over the telephone to General Naniescu, who promptly gave orders that it should not be sent. When he put down the receiver he was very much puzzled. Something had apparently happened at Kis-Imre which had greatly disturbed the beautiful Uno. It seemed indeed as if she had actually written those articles which Naniescu wanted so badly that he was prepared to pay ten thousand pounds sterling of Government money for them. And having written the articles, the lady seemed first to have sent them off, then to have repented.

Well, well! It was all very puzzling. Even M. de Kervoisin, experienced diplomat though he was, could suggest no solution. He advised the obvious: to wait and see.

“We shall see our friend Number Ten soon,” he said. “If I am not mistaken he has at least one key to the puzzle in his possession.”

But it was not Number Ten who presented himself at the Imrey palace that afternoon. It was ce cher Monsieur Blakeney, who had come all the way from England in order to preside over a game of cricket that had not come off because of the weather. His Excellency was delighted to see him, and so was M. de Kervoisin. This charming, most unexpected but most welcome visit was due no doubt to the cricket and the bad weather. So tiresome! Mais hélas! Man proposes and the rain disposes.

His Excellency was most sympathetic. Would M. Blakeney have a cigar and a glass of fine? No? Then what could His Excellency do for M. Blakeney?

“Pray command me, my dear Monsieur Blakeney. We are all so grateful to you for the kind interest you are taking in our young athletes. It will be such a happy recollection for them in after years that so distinguished an English champion as yourself has helped them with their games.”

Peter let him talk on. He thought it a pity to stem this flood of eloquence, and he was looking forward to the moment when Naniescu’s complacent effusions would turn to equally comic puzzlement first, and subsequently to amazement and delight.

“Shall I tell your Excellency now,” he said as soon as he could get a word in edgeways, “why I have come?”

“Mais comment donc?” the general replied suavely. “I am hanging on your lips, mon cher Monsieur Blakeney.”

“Well,” Peter said, quite slowly and speaking in French since M. de Kervoisin did not know English. “Well, it’s just this. Lady Tarkington has written certain newspaper articles, which you, general, very much desire to see published. That’s so, isn’t it?”

But though this opening almost betrayed Naniescu into an exclamation of surprise, he had enough control over his nerves not to give himself away. Fortunately he was a great adept at expressive gestures and his cigar also helped to keep him in countenance.

He leaned back in his chair, was silent for a moment or two blowing rings of smoke through his full, red lips.

“Articles?” he queried at last with an assumption of perfect indifference. “I don’t know. What articles do you mean, cher ami?”

“Those,” Peter replied with equal indifference, “for which you were prepared to pay a deuced lot of money to your spy-in-chief.”

Naniescu waved his podgy hand that held the cigar, then he deliberately dusted away a modicum of ash that had dropped upon his trousers.

“Ah!” he said innocently. “Lady Tarkington, you say, has written such articles?”

“Yes. She has.”

“Then no doubt she will honour me by allowing me to see the manuscript. She knows how deeply I am interested in her work.”

“No, general,” Peter broke in drily. “Lady Tarkington has no intention of allowing you to see that particular manuscript of hers.”

“Ah! May I be permitted to inquire how you happen to know that?”

“I happen to know⁠—no matter how⁠—that Lady Tarkington only wrote the articles tentatively; that after she had written them she repented having done so, and that her next act would have been to throw the manuscript into the fire.”

“Very