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

“Which is very flattering, sir. But isn’t it natural that a man should covet a beautiful property and seize the cheapest means to become possessed of it? That sort of thing has been largely done by the conquering nations since the war. Then why not by individuals?”

“Why not, as you say? But I was not thinking of that side of the question, chiefly because I do not believe that you stole Lady Tarkington’s manuscript in order to drive a bargain with our friend here over the Kis-Imre property. I may be wrong, but you don’t look to me the sort of man who would do this dirty trick for mere gain. I am giving you the credit of desiring above all to save your kinsfolk, young and old, from certain highly unpleasant eventualities.”

“You are very generous, sir, in your estimate of me.”

“The question is,” Kervoisin mused, “whether after all this they will be grateful to you for what you have done, or will they hate you, do you think, for what the publication of those articles will mean to their people? Lady Tarkington must at one time have intended to publish those articles, since she took the trouble to write them. Something turned her from the purpose: either her own conviction, or the desire of the Imreys themselves.”

“I suppose so,” Peter said, with a shrug of complete indifference.

“Whereupon you, my dear friend, stepped in like an unwanted deus ex machina, and settled the business to your own satisfaction, if not to theirs.”

“I never was good at Latin,” Peter said, with his most engaging smile, “but we’ll leave it at that if you like.”

De Kervoisin was silent for a moment or two, his attention being seemingly riveted on the rings of smoke that rose from his cigarette.

“I wonder,” he murmured after a while.

“Don’t trouble, sir. I am not worth it.”

“Ah! but youth always is a perpetual wonder to me. It is such a long time since I was young myself. And I was wondering which of the two levers youth pulled in order to make you act as you did.”

“Two levers?”

“Love or hate.”

Then, as Peter was silent in his turn, M. de Kervoisin went on: “You know, we in France always look for the woman in every case. Now here we have not far to seek. And yet love would seem to me to have gained nothing by this adventure, whilst hate, on the other hand⁠—”

He paused abruptly, his keen eyes narrowed, and his lips curled in a sardonic smile.

“Ah!” he said. “I think I understand, after all.”

“That’s more than I do, sir,” Peter retorted ingenuously.

M. de Kervoisin would no doubt have pursued the subject, which seemed greatly to interest him, had not Naniescu just then made a noisy reentry into the room. He had a large, official-looking document in his hand, which he threw down on the table.

“Have a look at this, my dear Monsieur Blakeney,” he said curtly. “I think that you will find it in order.”

Peter took up the paper and examined it at great length. It was a receipt for the sum of forty-five thousand pounds sterling, in full satisfaction for the sale of the estate of Kis-Imre here described as the property of the Crown of Romania. It was signed with Naniescu’s elaborate flourish, countersigned and stamped; it stated further that the sale would be duly inscribed in the Bureau des Hypothèques in accordance with the law, and the acte de vente and title-deeds handed over within one month to M. Peter Blakeney or his duly appointed representative.

It was all in order. Peter folded the receipt, but before putting it away he said to Naniescu:

“The whole thing, of course, is conditional on a free pardon being granted to Philip Imrey and Anna Heves, with permission to leave the country immediately. That was the original bargain between yourself and Lady Tarkington.”

“They can clear out of the country the day the last of these articles is published in the Times,” Naniescu rejoined gruffly. “I’ll arrange for that fool Maurus Imrey and his wife to clear out at the same time. The sooner I am rid of the whole brood of them, the better I shall like it.”

“I am sure you will,” Peter said blandly. “Then perhaps you won’t mind letting me have passports for them. You can postdate them, of course. I shouldn’t then have to intrude on you again.”

“You are very kind. The passports postdated, say, a week from today will be in the bureau at your disposal whenever you like to call for them. You understand that I should revoke them if at least one of these articles has not appeared within the week.”

“I quite understand,” Peter concluded. Everything now being in order, he slipped the receipt into his pocketbook, then, without further words, he handed Rosemary’s manuscript over to Naniescu.

“You have the covering letter,” he said simply.

Naniescu nodded, and he took the papers with a sigh of satisfaction, which he did not even attempt to disguise. His ill-temper had vanished. The daydream was coming true: the journey to Bucharest, the thanks of his King, the reward from a grateful Government! Naniescu felt at peace with all the world. He would even have hugged Peter to his breast.

“We part the best of friends,” he said suavely, “my dear Monsieur Blakeney.”

“Oh! the very best,” Peter assented.

“And when you come to take possession of Kis-Imre you will command my services, I hope.”

“I shall not fail to do so.”

“I will see to it that you can do it at the earliest possible moment. By the way,” Naniescu went on with some hesitation, “the furniture⁠—and other contents of the château⁠—they are not included in the sale, of course.”

“Of course not.”

“You won’t mind the Imreys having those? It might create an unpleasant impression⁠—if we were to⁠—er⁠—”

“It might,” Peter assented.

“I was sure you would agree with me about that,” Naniescu rejoined unctuously. “Then what would you like us to do