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

“Leave everything as it is until you hear from me again. The British Consul will look after things for me.”

“Ah!” Naniescu concluded with perfect affability, “then I don’t think I need detain you any longer, my dear young friend. May I express the wish that you will spend long and happy years in this beautiful country.”

“Thank you.”

Peter did not shake hands with either of the two men, but he caught Kervoisin’s glance and gave him a pleasant nod. To Naniescu he said just before leaving:

“I suppose you have realised that Lady Tarkington will probably wish to start for England immediately.”

“Yes, my dear young friend,” Naniescu replied blandly. “I had realised that, and I have taken measures accordingly. But how kind of you to remind me!”

And when Peter finally went out of the room the general, breathless, perspiring, nerve-racked, threw himself into a chair and exclaimed:

“Il n’y a pas à dire! They are astonishing, these English!”

He poured himself out a glass of fine and drank it down at one gulp.

“Did you ever see such an unmitigated young blackguard?” he exclaimed.

But de Kervoisin had remained thoughtful. His shrewd, pale eyes were fixed upon the door through which Peter had just disappeared. Naniescu had taken his handkerchief and was mopping his streaming forehead and his neck round the edge of his collar.

“I feel quite sick,” he murmured. “Ah, these English! mon ami. You don’t know them as I do. I firmly believe that they would sell their fathers, their mothers, their sisters, or their wives if they saw money in the transaction.”

Kervoisin made no comment on this tirade; after a while he asked abruptly: “What are you doing to prevent the lovely Uno from putting a spoke in your wheel?”

Naniescu gave a complacent laugh.

“Doing?” he retorted. “Why, I’ve already done everything, my friend. My courier starts tonight for London with Lady Tarkington’s letter and manuscript. He will be in London on Monday evening. On Tuesday he will call on the editor of the Times. Ostensibly he is Lady Tarkington’s messenger. When he has delivered the letter he will ask for a reply. That reply he will telegraph to me. Then we shall know where we are.”

He drank another glass of fine, then he went on:

“I have no doubt that the fair Uno has already got her boxes packed and is ready to start for England by the express tonight, but⁠—”

Naniescu paused. He stretched out his legs, examined the toes of his boots and the smoke of his cigar; his face wore an expression of fatuous self-satisfaction. “I think,” he said, “that you will be surprised at what I have done in the time. And so will the fair Uno,” he added with an expressive twinkle in his fine, dark eyes.

“What about friend Number Ten?” Kervoisin remarked drily.

“Well,” Naniescu retorted with his affected smile, “I imagine that friend Number Ten will be the most surprised of the lot.”

At Kis-Imre the day dragged on leaden-footed. Luncheon, then a long afternoon, then dinner. Time wore on and Elza had not returned.

Rosemary was ready, dressed for the journey; her suitcase was packed. She was only taking a very little luggage with her as she had every intention of returning as soon as her errand in London was accomplished. She would not for the world have left Elza alone too long with her troubles. She made herself no illusions with regard to the telegram which she had sent from the village. It would, she was sure, be intercepted, and Naniescu would not allow it to go. Rosemary’s intention was to send another directly she was the other side of the frontier. This would prevent the articles being published hurriedly, and, of course, she would be in London thirty-six hours later.

Indeed, the odious deed which Peter had planned and carried through appeared to her now not only in its hideousness but in its futility. What did he hope to accomplish? Did he know her so little as to imagine that she would merely call the occurrence an adverse blow of Fate and quietly sit down under it⁠—be content to send one wire which would be intercepted? It was futile! Futile! She was a British subject. She had a British passport. No power on earth could stop her from going to London or to the outermost ends of the earth if she had a mind. No one. Not even Jasper. Least of all Jasper!

But in the meanwhile Elza had not returned. Time went on, slowly but certainly. Eight o’clock⁠—nine o’clock⁠—ten o’clock. Unless Elza was home within the next half-hour Rosemary could not start for London before the next night. There was only one through train to Budapest every twenty-four hours, the midnight express! Any other slow train would be no help for getting the communication with the Orient Express.

And Rosemary could not go to London without knowing what Elza’s wishes were. Elza was to decide⁠—not she. And Elza had not come back from Anna’s mother. Soon after ten Rosemary sent Rosa round to Maurus to ask if she might see him. She hoped that he could perhaps tell her something definite about Elza’s movements. Rosemary found him very much altered since last she had seen him. He looked well in health, but his whole expression, even his appearance, seemed strange. The gipsy strain was more apparent⁠—the eyes seemed darker and more restless, the mouth redder and fuller, and the nose more hooked and narrower across the bridge. But he talked very quietly about Elza, because he had not really expected to see her back this evening.

“She was going to Cluj first,” he said, “to see Philip and Anna. Probably it took time to get permission to visit the children in prison. Then after that she was going to Ujlak. I suppose she wanted to let Charlotte know how little Anna is getting on. Poor child! Poor child!” Maurus went on slowly, wagging his