Part 8

“You’re extremely good,” she responded. “But if I should take off my loup, you’d be sorry. Of course, manlike, you’re hoping that I’m young and pretty.”

“Well, and aren’t you?”

“I’m a perfect fright. I’m an old maid.”

“Thank you. Manlike, I confess I was hoping you’d be young and pretty. Now my hope has received the strongest confirmation. I’m sure you are,” he declared triumphantly.

“Your argument, with a meretricious air of subtlety, is facile and superficial. Don’t pin your faith to it. Why shouldn’t Victor Field be here?” she persisted.

“The Countess only receives tremendous swells. It’s the most exclusive house in Europe.”

“Are you a tremendous swell?” she wondered.

“Rather!” he asseverated. “Aren’t you?”

She laughed a little, and stroked her fan, a big fan of fluffy black feathers.

“That’s very jolly,” said he.

“What?” said she.

“That thing in your lap.”

“My fan?”

“I expect you’d call it a fan.”

“For goodness’ sake, what would you call it?” cried she.

“I should call it a fan.”

She gave another little laugh. “You have a nice instinct for the mot juste,” she informed him.

“Oh, no,” he disclaimed, modestly. “But I can call a fan a fan, when I think it won’t shock the sensibilities of my hearer.”

“If the Countess only receives tremendous swells,” said she, “you must remember that Victor Field belongs to the Aristocracy of Talent.”

“Oh, quant à ça, so, from the Wohenhoffens’ point of view, do the barber and the horse-leech. In this house, the Aristocracy of Talent dines with the butler.”

“Is the Countess such a snob?” she asked.

“No; she’s an Austrian. They draw the line so absurdly tight in Austria.”

“Well, then, you leave me no alternative,” she argued, “but to conclude that Victor Field is a tremendous swell. Didn’t you notice, I bobbed him a curtsey?”

“I took the curtsey as a tribute to my Oriental magnificence,” he confessed. “Field doesn’t sound like an especially patrician name. I’d give anything to discover who you are. Can’t you be induced to tell me? I’ll bribe, entreat, threaten—I’ll do anything you think might persuade you.”

“I’ll tell you at once, if you’ll own up that you’re Victor Field,” said she.

“Oh, I’ll own up that I’m Queen Elizabeth if you’ll tell me who you are. The end justifies the means.”

“Then you are Victor Field?” she pursued him eagerly.

“If you don’t mind suborning perjury, why should I mind committing it?” he reflected. “Yes. And now, who are you?”

“No; I must have an unequivocal avowal,” she stipulated. “Are you or are you not Victor Field?”

“Let us put it at this,” he proposed, “that I’m a good serviceable imitation; an excellent substitute when the genuine article is not procurable.”

“Of course, your real name isn’t anything like Victor Field,” she declared, pensively.

“I never said it was. But I admire the way in which you give with one hand and take back with the other.”

“Your real name——” she began. “Wait a moment... Yes, now I have it. Your real name... It’s rather long. You don’t think it will bore you?”

“Oh, if it’s really my real name, I daresay I’m hardened to it,” said he.

“Your real name is Louis Charles Ferdinand Stanislas John Joseph Emmanuel Maria Anna.”

“Mercy upon me,” he cried, “what a name! You ought to have broken it to me in instalments. And it’s all Christian name at that. Can’t you spare me just a little rag of a surname, for decency’s sake?” he pleaded.

“The surnames of royalties don’t matter, Monseigneur,” she said, with a flourish.

“Royalties? What? Dear me, here’s rapid promotion! I am royal now! And a moment ago I was a little penny-a-liner in London.”

“L’un n’empêche pas l’autre. Have you never heard the story of the Invisible Prince?” she asked.

“I adore irrelevancy,” said he. “I seem to have read something about an invisible prince, when I was young. A fairy tale, wasn’t it?”

“The irrelevancy is only apparent. The story I mean is a story of real life. Have you ever heard of the Duke of Zeln?”

“Zeln? Zeln?” he repeated, reflectively. “No, I don’t think so.”

She clapped her hands. “Really, you do it admirably. If I weren’t perfectly sure of my facts, I believe I should be taken in. Zeln, as any history would tell you, as any old atlas would show you, was a little independent duchy in the centre of Germany.”

“Poor dear thing! Like Jonah in the centre of the whale,” he murmured, sympathetically.

“Hush. Don’t interrupt. Zeln was a little independent German duchy, and the Duke of Zeln was its sovereign. After the war with France it was absorbed by Prussia. But the ducal family still rank as royal highnesses. Of course, you’ve heard of the Leczinskis?”

“Lecz———-what?” said he.

“Leczinski,” she repeated.

“How do you spell it?”

“L—e—c—z—i—n—s—k—i.”

“Good. Capital. You have a real gift for spelling,” he exclaimed.

“Will you be quiet,” she said, severely, “and answer my question? Are you familiar with the name?”

“I should never venture to be familiar with a name I didn’t know,” he asserted.

“Ah, you don’t know it? You have never heard of Stanislas Leczinski, who was king of Poland? Of Marie Leczinska, who married Louis XV.?”

“Oh, to be sure. I remember. The lady whose portrait one sees at Versailles.”

“Quite so. Very well,” she continued, “the last representative of the Leczinskis, in the elder line, was the Princess Anna Leczinska, who, in 1858, married the Duke of Zeln. She was the daughter of John Leczinski, Duke of Grodnia and Governor of Galicia, and of the Archduchess Henrietta d’.ste, a cousin of the Emperor of Austria. She was also a great heiress, and an extremely handsome woman. But the Duke of Zeln was a bad lot, a viveur, a gambler, a spendthrift. His wife, like a fool, made her entire fortune over to him, and he proceeded to play ducks and drakes with it. By the time their son was born he’d got rid of the last farthing. Their son wasn’t born till ’63, five years after their marriage. Well, and then, what do you suppose the Duke did?”

“Reformed, of course. The wicked husband always reforms when a child is born, and there’s no more money,” he generalised.

“You know perfectly well what he did,” said she. “He petitioned the German Diet to annul the marriage. You see, having exhausted the dowry of the Princess Anna, it occurred to him that if she could only be got out of the way, he might marry another heiress, and have the spending of another fortune.”

“Clever dodge,” he observed. “Did it come off?”

“It came off, all too well. He based his petition on the ground that the marriage had never been.... I forget what the technical term is. Anyhow, he pretended that the princess had never been his wife except in name, and that the child couldn’t possibly be his. The Emperor of Austria stood by his connection, like the loyal gentleman he is; used every scrap of influence he possessed to help her. But the duke, who was a Protestant (the princess was of course a Catholic), the duke persuaded all the Protestant States in the Diet to vote in his favour. The Emperor of Austria was powerless, the Pope was powerless. And the Diet annulled the marriage.”

“Ah,” said the mandarin.

“Yes,” she went on. “The marriage was annulled, and the child declared illegitimate. Ernest Augustus, as the duke was somewhat inconsequently named, married again, and had other children, the eldest of whom is the present bearer of the title—the same Duke of Zeln one hears of, quarrelling with the croupiers at Monte Carlo. The Princess Anna, with her baby, came to Austria. The Emperor gave her a pension, and lent her one of his country houses to live in—Schloss Sanct-Andreas. Our hostess, by-the-bye, the Countess Wohenhoffen, was her intimate friend and her première dame d’honneur.”

“Ah,” said the mandarin.

“But the poor princess had suffered more than she could bear. She died when her child was four years old. The Countess Wohenhoffen took the infant, by the Emperor’s desire, and brought him up with her own son Peter. He was called Prince Louis Leczinski. Of course, in all moral right, he was the Hereditary Prince of Zeln. His legitimacy, for the rest, and his mother’s innocence, are perfectly well established, in every sense but a legal sense, by the fact that he has all the physical characteristics of the Zeln stock. He has the Zeln nose and the Zeln chin, which are as distinctive as the Habsburg lip.”

“I hope, for the poor young man’s sake, though, that they’re not so unbecoming?” questioned the mandarin.

“They’re not exactly pretty,” answered the mask. “The nose is a thought too long, the chin is a trifle too short. However, I daresay the poor young man is satisfied. As I was about to tell you, the Countess Wohenhoflen brought him up, and the Emperor destined him for the Church. He even went to Rome and entered the Austrian College. He’d have been on the high road to a cardinalate by this time if he’d stuck to the priesthood, for he had strong interest. But, lo and behold, when he was about twenty, he chucked the whole thing up.”

“Ah? Histoire de femme?”

“Very likely,” she assented, “though I’ve never heard any one say so. At all events, he left Rome, and started upon his travels. He had no money of his own, but the Emperor made him an allowance. He started upon his travels, and he went to India, and he went to America, and he went to South Africa, and then, finally, in ’87 or ’88, he went—no one knows where. He totally disappeared, vanished into space. He’s not been heard of since. Some people think he’s dead. But the greater number suppose that he tired of his false position in the world, and one fine day determined to escape from it, by sinking his identity, changing his name, and going in for a new life under new conditions. They call him the Invisible Prince. His position was rather an ambiguous one, wasn’t it? You see, he was neither one thing nor the other. He had no état-civil. In the eyes of the law he was a bastard, yet he knew himself to be the legitimate son of the Duke of Zeln. He was a citizen of no country, yet he was the rightful heir to a throne. He was the last descendant of Stanislas Leczinski, yet it was without authority that he bore his name. And then, of course, the rights and wrongs of the matter were only known to a few. The majority of people simply remembered that there had been a scandal. And (as a wag once said of him) wherever he went, he left his mother’s reputation behind him. No wonder he found the situation irksome. Well, there is the story of the Invisible Prince.”

“And a very exciting, melodramatic little story, too. For my part, I suspect your Prince met a boojum. I love to listen to stories. Won’t you tell me another? Do, please,” he pressed her.

“No, he didn’t meet a boojum,” she returned. “He went to England, and set up for an author. The Invisible Prince and Victor Field are one and the same person.”

“Oh, I say! Not really!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, really.”

“What makes you think so?” he wondered.

“I’m sure of it,” said she. “To begin with, I must confide to you that Victor Field is a man I’ve never met.”

“Never met...?” he gasped. “But, by the blithe way in which you were laying his sins at my door, a little while ago, I supposed you were sworn confederates.”

“What’s the good of masked balls, if you can’t talk to people you’ve never met?” she submitted. “I’ve never met him, but I’m one of his admirers. I like his little poems. And I’m the happy possessor of a portrait of him. It’s a print after a photograph. I cut it from an illustrated paper.”

“I really almost wish I was Victor Field,” he sighed. “I should feel such a glow of gratified vanity.”

“And the Countess Wohenhoffen,” she added, “has at least twenty portraits of the Invisible Prince—photographs, miniatures, life-size paintings, taken from the time he was born, almost, to the time of his disappearance. Victor Field and Louis Leczinski have countenances as like each other as two halfpence.”

“An accidental resemblance, doubtless.”

“No, it isn’t an accidental resemblance,” she affirmed.

“Oh, then you think it’s intentional?” he quizzed.

“Don’t be absurd. I might have thought it accidental, except for one or two odd little circumstances. Primo, Victor Field is a guest at the Wohenhoffens’ ball.”

“Oh, he is a guest here?”

“Yes, he is,” she said. “You are wondering how I know. Nothing simpler. The same costumier who made my domino, supplied his Chinese dress. I noticed it at his shop. It struck me as rather nice, and I asked whom it was for. The costumier said, for an Englishman at the Hôtel de Bade. Then he looked in his book, and told me the Englishman’s name. It was Victor Field. So, when I saw the same Chinese dress here to-night, I knew it covered the person of one of my favourite authors. But I own, like you, I was a good deal surprised. What on earth should a little London literary man be doing at the Countess Wohenhoffen’s? And then I remembered the astonishing resemblance between Victor Field and Louis Leczinski; and I remembered that to Louis Leczinski the Countess Wohenhoffen had been a second mother; and I reflected that though he chose to be as one dead and buried for the rest of the world, Louis Leczinski might very probably keep up private relations with the Countess. He might very probably come to her ball, incognito, and safely masked. I observed also that the Countess’s rooms were decorated throughout with white lilac. But the white lilac is the emblematic flower of the Leczinskis; green and white are their family colours. Wasn’t the choice of white lilac on this occasion perhaps designed as a secret compliment to the Prince? I was taught in the schoolroom that two and two make four.”

“Oh, one can see that you’ve enjoyed a liberal education,” he apprised her. “But where were you taught to jump to conclusions? You do it with a grace, an assurance. I too have heard that two and two make four; but first you must catch your two and two. Really, as if there couldn’t be more than one Chinese costume knocking about Vienna, during carnival week! Dear, good, sweet lady, it’s of all disguises the disguise they’re driving hardest, this particular season. And then to build up an elaborate theory of identities upon the mere chance resemblance of a pair of photographs! Photographs indeed! Photographs don’t give the complexion. Say that your Invisible Prince is dark, what’s to prevent your literary man from being fair or sandy? Or vice versa? And then, how is a little German Polish princeling to write poems and things in English? No, no, no; your reasoning hasn’t a leg to stand on.”

“Oh, I don’t mind its not having legs,” she laughed, “so long as it convinces me. As for writing poems and things in English, you yourself said that everybody is more or less English, in these days. German princes are especially so. They all learn English, as a second mother-tongue. You see, like Circassian beauties, they are mostly bred up for the marriage market; and nothing is a greater help towards a good sound remunerative English marriage, than a knowledge of the language. However, don’t be frightened. I must take it for granted that Victor Field would prefer not to let the world know who he is. I happen to have discovered his secret. He may trust to my discretion.”

“You still persist in imagining that I’m Victor Field?” he murmured sadly.

“I should have to be extremely simple-minded,” she announced, “to imagine anything else. You wouldn’t be a male human being if you had sat here for half an hour patiently talking about another man.”

“Your argument,” said he, “with a meretricious air of subtlety, is facile and superficial. I thank you for teaching me that word. I’d sit here till doomsday talking about my worst enemy, for the pleasure of talking with you.”

“Perhaps we have been talking of your worst enemy. Whom do the moralists pretend a man’s worst enemy is wont to be?” she asked.

“I wish you would tell me the name of the person the moralists would consider your worst enemy,” he replied.

“I’ll tell you directly, as I said before, if you’ll own up,” she offered.

“Your price is prohibitive. I’ve nothing to own up to.”

“Well then—good night,” she said.

Lightly, swiftly, she fled from the conservatory, and was soon irrecoverable in the crowd.

The next morning Victor Field left Vienna for London; but before he left he wrote a letter to Peter Wohenhoffen. In the course of it he said: “There was an Englishwoman at your ball last night with the reasoning powers of a detective in a novel. By divers processes of elimination and induction, she had formed all sorts of theories about no end of things. Among others, for instance, he was willing to bet her hali-dome that a certain Prince Louis Leczinski, who seems to have gone on the spree some years ago, and never to have come home again—she was willing to bet anything you like that Leczinski and I—moi qui vous parle—were to all intents and purposes the same. Who was she, please? Rather a tall woman, in a black domino, with grey eyes, or greyish-blue, and a nice voice.”

In the answer which he received from Peter Wohenhoffen towards the end of the week, Peter said: “There were nineteen Englishwomen at my mother’s party, all of them rather tall, with nice voices, and grey or blue-grey eyes. I don’t know what colours their dominoes were. Here is a list of them.”

The names that followed were names of people whom Victor Field almost certainly would never meet. The people Victor knew in London were the sort of people a little literary man might be expected to know. Most of them were respectable; some of them even deemed themselves rather smart, and patronised him right Britishly. But the nineteen names in Peter Wohenhoffen’s list (“Oh, me! Oh, my!” cried Victor) were names to make you gasp.

All the same, he went a good deal to Hyde Park during the season, and watched the driving.

“Which of all those haughty high-born beauties is she?” he wondered futilely.

And then the season passed, and then the year; and little by little, of course, he ceased to think about her.

One afternoon last May, a man, habited in accordance with the fashion of the period, stopped before a hairdresser’s shop in Knightsbridge somewhere, and, raising his hat, bowed to the three waxen ladies who simpered from the window.

“Oh! It’s Mr. Field!” a voice behind him cried. “What are those cryptic rites that you’re performing? What on earth are you bowing into a hairdresser’s window for?”—a smooth, melodious voice, tinged by an inflection that was half ironical, half bewildered.

“I was saluting the type of English beauty,” he answered, turning. “Fortunately, there are divergencies from it,” he added, as he met the puzzled smile of his interlocutrice; a puzzled smile indeed, but, like the voice, by no means without its touch of irony.

She gave a little laugh; and then, examining the models critically, “Oh?” she questioned. “Would you call that the type? You place the type high. Their features are quite faultless, and who ever saw such complexions?”

“It’s the type, all the same,” said he. “Just as the imitation marionette is the type of English breeding.”

“The imitation marionette? I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she confessed.

“The imitation marionettes. You’ve seen them at little theatres in Italy. They’re actors who imitate puppets. Men and women who try to behave as if they weren’t human, as if they were made of starch and whalebone, instead of flesh and blood.”

“Ah, yes,” she assented, with another little laugh. “That would be rather typical of our insular methods. But do you know what an engaging, what a reviving spectacle you presented, as you stood there flourishing your hat? What do you imagine people thought? And what would have happened to you if I had just chanced to be a policeman instead of a friend?”

“Would you have clapped your handcuffs on me?” he enquired. “I suppose my conduct did seem rather suspicious. I was in the deepest depth of dejection. One must give some expression to one’s sorrow.”

“Are you going towards Kensington?” she asked, preparing to move on.

“Before I commit myself, I should like to be sure whether you are,” he replied.

“You can easily discover with a little perseverance.”

He placed himself beside her, and together they walked towards Kensington.

She was rather taller than the usual woman, and slender. She was exceedingly well-dressed; smartly, becomingly; a jaunty little hat of strangely twisted straw, with an aigrette springing defiantly from it; a jacket covered with mazes and labyrinths of embroidery; at her throat a big knot of white lace, the ends of which fell winding in a creamy cascade to her waist (do they call the thing a jabot?); and then....

But what can a man trust himself to write of these esoteric matters? She carried herself extremely well, too: with grace, with distinction, her head held high, even thrown back a little, superciliously. She had an immense quantity of very lovely hair. Red hair? Yellow hair? Red hair with yellow lights burning in it? Yellow hair with red fires shimmering through it? In a single loose, full billow it swept away from her forehead, and then flowed into half-a-thousand rippling, crinkling, capricious undulations. And her skin had the sensitive colouring, the fineness of texture, that are apt to accompany red hair when it’s yellow, yellow hair when it’s red. Her face, with its pensive, quizzical eyes, it’s tip-tilted nose, it’s rather large mouth, and the little mocking quirks and curves the lips took, was an alert, arch, witty face; a delicate high-bred face; and withal a somewhat sensuous, emotional face; the face of a woman with a vast deal of humour in her soul, a vast deal of mischief; of a woman who would love to tease you, and mystify you, and lead you on, and put you off; and yet who, in her own way, at her own time, would know supremely well how to be kind.

But it was mischief rather than kindness that glimmered in her eyes at present, as she asked, “You were in the deepest depths of dejection. Poor man! Why?”

“I can’t precisely determine,” said he, “whether the sympathy that seems to vibrate in your voice is genuine or counterfeit.”

“Perhaps it’s half and half,” she suggested. “But my curiosity is unmixed. Tell me your troubles.”

“The catalogue is long. I’ve sixteen hundred million. The weather, for example. The shameless beauty of this radiant spring day. It’s enough to stir all manner of wild pangs and longings in the heart of an octogenarian. But, anyhow, when one’s life is passed in a dungeon, one can’t perpetually be singing and dancing from mere exuberance of joy, can one?”

“Is your life passed in a dungeon?” she exclaimed.

“Indeed, indeed, it is. Isn’t yours?”

“It had never occurred to me that it was.”

“You’re lucky. Mine is passed in the dungeons of Castle Ennui,” he said.

“Oh, Castle Ennui. Ah, yes. You mean you’re bored?”

“At this particular moment I’m savouring the most exquisite excitement,” he professed. “But in general, when I am not working or sleeping, I’m bored to extermination—incomparably bored. If only one could work and sleep alternately, twenty-four hours a day, the year round! There’s no use trying to play in London. It’s so hard to find a playmate. The English people take their pleasures without salt.”

“The dungeons of Castle Ennui,” she repeated meditatively. “Yes, we are fellow-prisoners. I’m bored to extermination too. Still,” she added, “one is allowed out on parole, now and again. And sometimes one has really quite delightful little experiences.”

“It would ill become me, in the present circumstances, to dispute that,” he answered, bowing.

“But the castle waits to reclaim us afterwards, doesn’t it?” she mused. “That’s rather a happy image, Castle Ennui.”