The Azure Rose Part 17

"Oh, but you have had an accident!" she cried.

Cartaret's hand went to his face. He looked at Chitta: Chitta's returning glance was something between an appeal and a threat, but a trifle nearer the latter.

"I had a little fall," said Cartaret, "and I was scratched in falling."

The room was bare, but clean and pleasant, fresh from the constant application of Chitta's mop and broom, fresher from the Spring breeze that came in through the front windows, and freshest from the presence of the Lady of the Rose. Two curtained corners seemed to contain beds.

At the rear, behind a screen, there must have been a gas-stove where Chitta could soon be heard at work upon the breakfast. What furniture there was bore every evidence of being Parisian, purchased in the Quarter; there was none to indicate the nationality of the tenants; and the bright little table, at which Cartaret was presently seated so comfortably as to forget the necessity of the Pre-Raphaelite pose, was Parisian too.

"You must speak French," smiled the Lady--how very white her teeth were, and how very red her lips!--as she looked at him across the coffee-urn: "that is the sole condition that, sir, I impose upon you."

"Willingly," said Cartaret, in the language thus imposed; "but why, when you speak English so well?"

"Because"--the Lady was half serious about it--"I had to promise Chitta that, under threat of her leaving Paris; and if she left Paris, I should of course have to leave it, too. French she understands a little, as you know, but not English, and"--the Lady's pink deepened--"she says that English is the one language of which she cannot even guess the meaning when she hears it, because English is the one language that can be spoken with the lips only, and spoken as if the speaker's face were a mask."

He said he should have thought that Chitta would pick it up from her.

"Why," he said, "it comes so readily to you: you answered in it instinctively that time when I first saw you. Don't you remember?"

"I remember. I was very frightened. Perhaps I used it when you did because we had an English governess at my home and speak it much in the family. We speak it when we do not want the servants to understand, and so we have kept it from Chitta." She was pouring the coffee. "Tell me truly: do I indeed speak it well?"

"Excellently. Of course you are a little precise."

"How precise?"

"Well, you said, that time, 'It is I'; we generally say 'It's me'--like the French, you understand."

If Princesses could pout, he would have said that she pouted.

"But I was right."

"Not entirely. You weren't colloquial."

"I was correct," she insisted. "'It is I' is correct. My grammar says that the verb 'To be' takes the same case after it as before it. If the Americans say something else, they do not speak good English."

Cartaret laughed.

"The English say it, too."

"Then," said the Lady with an emphatic nod, "the English also."

It was a simple breakfast, but excellently cooked, and Cartaret had come to it with a healthy hunger. Chitta was present only in the capacity of servant; but managed to be constantly within earshot and generally to have hostess and guest under her supervision. He felt her eyes upon him when she brought in the highly-seasoned omelette, when she replenished the coffee; frequently he even caught her peeping around the screen that hid the stove. It was a marvel that she could cook so well, since she was forever deserting her post. She made Cartaret blush with the memory of his gift to her; she made him feel that his gift had only increased her distrust; when he fell to talking about himself, he made light of his poverty, so that, should Chitta's evident scruples against him ever lead her to betray what he had done, the Lady might not feel that he had sacrificed too much in giving so little.

Nevertheless, Cartaret was in no mood for complaint: he was sitting opposite his Princess and was happy. He told her of his life in America, of football and of Broadway. It is a rare thing for a lover to speak of his sister, but Cartaret even mentioned Cora.

"Is she afraid of you, monsieur?" asked the Lady.

"I can't imagine Cora being afraid of any mere man."

"Ah," said the Lady; "then the American brothers are different from brothers in my country. I have a brother. I think he is the handsomest and bravest man in the world, and I love him. But I fear him too. I fear him very much."

"Your own brother?"

The Lady was giving Cartaret some more omelette. Cartaret, holding his ready plate, saw her glance toward the rear of the room and saw her meet the eyes of Chitta, whose face was thrust around the screen.

"Yes," said the Lady.

It struck Cartaret that she dropped her brother rather quickly. She talked of other things.

"Your name," she said, "is English: the concierge gave it me. It is English, is it not?"

She had made enquiries about him, then: Cartaret liked that.

"My people were English, long ago," he answered. He grew bold. He had been a fool not to make enquiries about her, but now he would make them at first hand. "I don't know your name," he said.

He saw her glance again toward the rear of the room, but when he looked he saw n.o.body. The Lady was saying:

"Urola."

It helped him very little. He said;

"That sounds Spanish."

Instantly her head went up. There was blue fire in her eyes as she answered:

"I have not one drop of Spanish blood; not one."

He had meant no offense, yet it was clear that he came dangerously near one. He made haste to apologize.

"You do not understand," she said, smiling a little. "In my country we hate the Spaniard."

"What is your country?"

It was the most natural of questions--he had put it once before--yet he had now no sooner uttered it than he felt that he had committed another indiscretion. This time, when she glanced at the rear of the room, he distinctly saw Chitta's head disappearing behind the screen.

"It is a far country," said Mlle. Urola. "It is a wild country. We have no opportunities to study art in my country. So I came to Paris."

After that there was nothing for him to do but to be interested in her studies, and of them she told him willingly enough. She was very ambitious; she worked hard, but she made, she said, little progress.

"The people that have no feeling for any art I pity," she said; "but, oh, I pity more those who want to be some sort of artist and cannot be! The desire without the talent, that kills."

Chitta was coming back, bearing aloft a fresh dish. She bore it with an air more haughty than any she had yet a.s.sumed. Directing at Cartaret a glance of pride and scorn, she set before her mistress--Cartaret's strawberries.

The Lady clapped her pretty hands. She laughed with delight.

"This," she said, "is a surprise! I had not known that we were to have strawberries. It is so like Chitta. She is so kind and thoughtful, monsieur. Always she has for me some surprise like this."

"It is a surprise," said Cartaret. "I'm sure I'll enjoy it."

She served the berries while Chitta stalked away.