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

to Naniescu he said drily: “May I in the meanwhile refresh my memory of the articles?”

The eyes of the two men met across the table. Naniescu’s flashed with resentment, but Peter’s face wore a disarming smile. He looked for all the world like a schoolboy bartering marbles for stamps. But the situation appeared to tickle Kervoisin’s fancy. He gave a dry chuckle and said:

“You are quite right, mon ami. They are astonishing, these English.”

The exchange was effected without Naniescu losing his sense of resentment or Peter his pleasant smile, and Peter held on to Rosemary’s manuscript while the general read the letter through.

While he read, the look of resentment vanished from his face and a complacent smile rose to his full, sensuous lips.

“Il n’y pas à dire,” he murmured; “c’est très, très bien.”

When he had finished reading he looked up at Peter.

“Now then, Monsieur Blakeney,” he said curtly, “your last price?”

“I have told you, sir⁠—the title-deeds of Kis-Imre.”

“You are joking.”

“I was never more serious in my life.”

“But, hang it all, man, if I make the property over to you, how are we to get rid of the Imreys?”

Peter shrugged his shoulders, and, still smiling, said coolly: “That, Excellency, is your affair, not mine.”

“But the Countess Imrey is your aunt.”

“What has that got to do with the whole thing, Excellency?”

“What has it got to do with it? What has it⁠—?” Naniescu was gasping with astonishment. He was something of a rascal himself, but never in all his life had he come across such callousness or such impudence. He turned to Kervoisin as much as to say: “Have you ever seen such an unmitigated young blackguard?” But the Frenchman’s face was inscrutable; his keen, pale eyes rested with obvious puzzlement on Peter.

“Then you want me,” Naniescu asked, as soon as he had recovered his breath, “you want me to turn the Imreys out of their home?”

“It won’t be the first time, Excellency, that you have done that sort of thing, will it?” Peter retorted, with his most engaging smile.

Strangely enough, Naniescu was losing his temper. He wanted those articles and wanted them badly, and if this preposterous deal went through he could have them without putting his hand in his pocket. But this young blackguard exasperated him. Perhaps professional pride was wounded at meeting a man more corrupt, more venal than himself. To further his own ends Naniescu would have plundered and bullied to an unlimited extent, but he would not have robbed and bullied his own kith and kin; whereas this handsome young athlete with the engaging smile did not seem to have the slightest scruple or the least pricking of conscience. It would be a triumph to get the better of him in some sort of way. Unfortunately the scamp had not yet given up the manuscript, and Naniescu only had the letter, whilst de Kervoisin was in one of his abstracted fits when he wouldn’t open his mouth to give friendly advice.

The general, sitting back in his chair, and blowing smoke rings through his pursed lips, had a swift but exceedingly pleasant daydream. Those articles were just what he wanted. They were so beautifully written! So convincingly! What a stir they would make! They were a complete vindication of his administration here in Transylvania. The country prosperous. The people contented. Only a small minority grumbling without the slightest justification. Oh, those articles! Published in the English Times and signed by the illustrious “Uno”! Naniescu, closing his eyes to enjoy this wonderful daydream, saw himself summoned to Bucharest, there to receive the personal thanks of his King and a substantial reward from his Government, whilst all he need do now to obtain these glorious results was to hand over to this young rascal a property that belonged to that fool Maurus Imrey.

It was a lovely daydream. A stroke of the pen would make it reality. No wonder that General Naniescu swore loudly when the crackling of paper woke him from his short trance. The young rascal was quite unconcernedly stowing that precious manuscript away in his pocket.

“Halt!” Naniescu exclaimed, on the impulse of the moment. “I accept⁠—” Then he added guardedly: “On principle, I mean.”

“And in fact?” Peter queried, without making the slightest movement towards taking the manuscript out of his pocket again.

“Yes, yes!” Naniescu replied impatiently. “But, curse you for a jackanapes, these things take time⁠—”

“They need not,” Peter rejoined curtly. “All you need do is to give me an official receipt for forty-five thousand sterling, the balance of the purchase-money for the Kis-Imre property. The British Consul and your lawyer will do the rest.”

“And when do you want possession?”

“At once.”

Naniescu made a final appeal to his friend: “What do you say, Kervoisin?”

But the Frenchman’s face remained inscrutable. He was watching the smoke that curled upwards from the tip of his cigarette, and only from time to time did he throw a quick, indefinable glance at the tall, athletic figure of the man who was driving such a contemptible bargain. When Naniescu appealed directly to him, he only shrugged his shoulders to indicate his complete detachment from the whole affair. Peter, on the other hand, showed not the slightest sign of impatience. He even went to the length of buttoning up his coat.

“Would you like to think it over?” he said coolly. “I can leave my offer open for another few hours.”

“No! damn you!” Naniescu exclaimed, and jumped to his feet. “Wait for me here. I’ll have the receipt ready in five minutes.”

After which, from sheer force of habit, he swore in several other languages before he finally strode out of the room.

XXXV

Peter met de Kervoisin’s shrewd eyes fixed searchingly upon him. He gave a quaint, good-humoured laugh.

“Are you trying to make up your mind, sir,” he asked, “just what kind of a blackguard I am?”

M. de Kervoisin’s thin lips curled in a wry smile. “I am not sure,” he said, “that you are a blackguard.