The Vultures Part 32

Deulin leaned across the table and tapped the symbol that he had drawn on the margin of the newspaper, daintily, with his finger-nail.

"That paris.h.i.+oner is in London, too," he said, in his own tongue--and the word means more in French.

Cartoner slowly tore the margin from the newspaper and reduced the drawing to small pieces. Then he glanced at the clock.

"Trying to get me out of Warsaw," he said. "Giving me a graceful chance of showing the white feather."

Deulin smiled. He had seen the glance, and he was quicker than most at guessing that which might be pa.s.sing in another man's mind. The force of habit is so strong that few even think of a train without noting the time of day at the same moment. If Cartoner was thinking of a train at that instant, it could only be the train to Berlin on the heels of Kosmaroff, and Deulin desired to get Cartoner away from Warsaw.

"The white feather," he said, "is an emblem that neither you nor I need trouble our minds about. Don't get narrow-minded, Cartoner. It is a national fault, remember. For an Englishman, you used to be singularly independent of the opinion of the man in the street or the woman at the tea-table. Afraid! What does it matter who thinks we are afraid?"

And he gave a sudden staccato laugh which had a subtle ring in it of envy, or of that heaviness which is of a life that is waxing old.

"Look here," he said, after a pause, and he made a little diagram on the table, "here is a bonfire, all dry and crackling--here, in Warsaw.

Here--in Berlin or in London--is the man with the match that will set it alight. You and I have happened on a great event, and stand in the shadow that it casts before it, for the second--no, for the third time in our lives. We work together again, I suppose. We have always done so when it was possible. One must watch the dry wood, the other must know the movements of the man with the kindling. Take your choice, since your humor is so odd. You stay or you go--but remember that it is in the interests of others that you go."

"Of others?"

"Yes--of the Bukatys. Your presence here is a danger to them. Now go or stay, as you like."

Cartoner glanced at his companion with watchful eyes. He was not deliberating; for he had made up his mind long ago, and was now weighing that decision.

"I will go," he said, at length. And Deulin leaned back in his chair with a half-suppressed yawn of indifference. It was, as Cartoner had observed, when he was most idle that this gentleman had important business in hand. He had a gay, light, easy touch on life, and, it is to be supposed, never set much store upon the gain of an object. It seemed that he must have played the game in earnest at one time, must have thrown down his stake and lost it, or won it perhaps, and then had no use for his gain, which is a bitterer end than loss can ever be.

"I dare say you are right," he said. "And, at all events, you will see the last of this sad city."

Then he changed the subject easily, and began to talk of some trivial matter. From one question to another he pa.s.sed, with that air of superficiality which northern men can never hope to understand, and here and there he touched upon those grave events which wise men foresaw at this period in European history.

"I smell," he said, "something in the atmosphere. Strangers pa.s.sing in the street look at one with a questioning air, as if there were a secret which one might perhaps be party to. And I, who have no secrets."

He spread out his hands, with a gay laugh.

"Because," he added, with a sudden gravity, "there is nothing in life worth making a secret of--except one's income. There are many reasons why mine remains unconfessed. But, my friend, if anything should happen--anything--anywhere--we keep each other advised. Is it not so?"

"Usual cipher," answered Cartoner.

"My salutations to Lady Orlay," said Deulin, with a reflective nod.

"That woman who can keep a secret."

"I thought you had none."

"She knows the secret--of my income," answered the Frenchman. "Tell her--no! Do not tell her anything. But go and see her. When will you leave?"

"To-night."

"And until then? Come and lunch with me at the Russian Club. No! Well, do as you like. I will say good-bye now. Heavens! how many times have we met and said good-bye again in hotels and railway stations and hired rooms! We have no abiding city and no friends. We are sons of Ishmael, and have none to care when we furl our tents and steal away."

He paused, and looked round the bare room, in which there was nothing but the hired furniture.

"The police will be in here five minutes after you are out," he said, curtly. "You have no message--" He paused to pick up from the floor a petal of his flower that had fallen. Then he walked to the window and looked out. Standing there, with his back to Cartoner, he went on: "No message to any one in Warsaw?"

"No," answered Cartoner.

"No--you wouldn't have one. You are not that sort of man. Gad! You are hard, Cartoner--hard as nails."

Cartoner did not answer. He was already putting together his possessions--already furling his solitary tent. It was only natural that he was loath to go; for he was turning his back on danger, and few men worthy of the name do that with alacrity, whatever their nationality may be; for gameness is not solely a British virtue, as is supposed in English public schools.

Suddenly Deulin turned round and shook hands.

"Don't know when we shall next meet. Take care of yourself. Good-bye."

And he went towards the door. But he paused on the threshold.

"The matter of the 'white feather' you may leave to me. You may leave others to me, too, so far as that goes. The sons of Ishmael must stand together."

And, with an airy wave of the hand and his rather hollow laugh, he was gone.

XXIII

COEUR VOLANT

In that great plain which is known to geographers as the Central European Depression the changes of the weather are very deliberate. If rain is coming, the cautious receive full warning of its approach. The clouds gather slowly, and disperse without haste when their work is done. For some days it had been looking like rain. The leaves on the trees of the Saski Gardens were hanging limp and lifeless. The whole world was dusty and expectant. Cartoner left Warsaw in a deluge of rain.

It had come at last.

In the afternoon Deulin went to call at the Bukaty Palace. He was ushered into the great drawing-room, and there left to his own devices.

He did an unusual thing. He fell into a train of thought so absorbing that he did not hear the door open or the soft sound of Wanda's dress as she entered the room. Her gay laugh brought him down to the present with a sort of shock.

"You were dreaming," she said.

"Heaven forbid!" he answered, fervently. "Dreams and white hairs--No, I was listening to the rain."

He turned and looked at her with a sudden defiance in his eyes, as if daring her to doubt him.

"I was listening to the rain. The summer is gone, Wanda--it is gone."

He drew forward a chair for her, and glanced over his shoulder towards the large folding-doors, through which the conservatory was visible in the fading light. The rain drummed on the gla.s.s roof with a hopeless, slow persistency.

"Can you not shut that door?" he said. "Bon Dieu! what a suicidal note that strikes--that hopeless rain--a northern autumn evening! There was a chill in the air as I drove down the Faubourg. If I were a woman I should have tea, or a cry. Being a man, I curse the weather and drive in a hired carriage to the pleasantest place in Warsaw."

Without waiting for further permission, he went and closed the large doors, shutting out the sound of the rain and the sight of the streaming gla.s.s, with sodden leaves stuck here and there upon it. Wanda watched him with a tolerant smile. Her daily life was lived among men; and she knew that it is not only women who have unaccountable humors, a sudden anger, or a quick and pa.s.sing access of tenderness. There was a shadow of uneasiness in her eyes. He had come to tell her something. She knew that. She remembered that when this diplomatist looked most idle he was in reality about his business.

"There," he said, throwing himself back in an easy-chair and looking at her with smiling lips and eyes deeply, tragically intelligent. "That is more comfortable. Can you tell me nothing that will amuse me? Do you not see that my sins sit heavily on me this evening?"

"I do not know if it will amuse you," answered Wanda, in her energetic way, as if taking him at his word and seeking to rouse him, "but Mr.

Mangles and Miss Cahere are coming to tea this evening."