“I don’t wish to make acquaintance with strangers.”
She turned her back on him and next time he saw her, cut him dead.
She was a tiny old woman, just a few little bones in a bag of wrinkled skin, and her face was deeply furrowed. It was obvious that she wore a wig, it was of a mousy brown, very elaborate and not always set quite straight, and she was heavily made up, with great patches of scarlet on her withered cheeks and brilliantly red lips. She dressed fantastically in gay clothes that looked as though they had been bought higgledy-piggledy from an old-clothes shop and in the daytime she wore enormous, extravagantly girlish hats. She tripped along in very small smart shoes with very high heels. Her appearance was so grotesque that it created consternation rather than amusement. People turned in the street and stared at her with open mouths.
Ashenden was told that Miss King had not been to England since she was first engaged as governess of the prince’s mother and he could not but be amazed to think of all she must have seen during those long years in the harems of Cairo. It was impossible to guess how old she was. How many of those short Eastern lives must have run their course under her eyes and what dark secrets must she have known! Ashenden wondered where she came from; an exile from her own country for so long, she must possess in it neither family nor friends: he knew that her sentiments were anti-English and if she had answered him so rudely he surmised that she had been told to be on her guard against him. She never spoke anything but French. Ashenden wondered what it was she thought of as she sat there, for luncheon and dinner, by herself. He wondered if she ever read. After meals she went straight upstairs and was never seen in the public sitting-rooms. He wondered what she thought of those two emancipated princesses who wore garish frocks and danced with strange men in second-rate cafés. But when Miss King passed him on her way out of the dining-room it seemed to Ashenden that her mask of a face scowled. She appeared actively to dislike him. Her gaze met his and the pair of them looked at one another for a moment; he imagined that she tried to put into her stare an unspoken insult. It would have been pleasantly absurd in that painted, withered visage if it had not been for some reason rather oddly pathetic.
But now the Baroness de Higgins, having finished her dinner, gathered up her handkerchief and her bag, and with waiters bowing on either side sailed down the spacious room. She stopped at Ashenden’s table. She looked magnificent.
“I’m so glad you can play bridge tonight,” she said in her perfect English, with no more than a trace of German accent. “Will you come to my sitting-room when you are ready and have your coffee?”
“What a lovely dress,” said Ashenden.
“It is frightful. I have nothing to wear, I don’t know what I shall do now that I cannot go to Paris. Those horrible Prussians,” and her r’s grew guttural as she raised her voice, “why did they want to drag my poor country into this terrible war?”
She gave a sigh, and a flashing smile, and sailed on. Ashenden was among the last to finish and when he left the dining-room it was almost empty. As he walked past Count Holzminden, Ashenden feeling very gay hazarded the shadow of a wink. The German agent could not be quite sure of it and if he suspected it might rack his brains to discover what mystery it portended. Ashenden walked up to the second floor and knocked at the baroness’s door.
“Entrez, entrez,” she said and flung it open.
She shook both his hands with cordiality and drew him into the room. He saw that the two persons who were to make the four had already arrived. They were Prince Ali and his secretary. Ashenden was astounded.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Ashenden to your Highness,” said the baroness, speaking in her fluent French.
Ashenden bowed and took the proffered hand. The Prince gave him a quick look, but did not speak. Madame de Higgins went on:
“I do not know if you have met the Pasha.”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ashenden,” said the Prince’s secretary, warmly shaking his hand. “Our beautiful baroness has talked to us of your bridge and His Highness is devoted to the game. N’est-ce pas, Altesse?”
“Oui, oui,” said the Prince.
Mustapha Pasha was a huge fat fellow, of forty-five perhaps, with large mobile eyes and a big black moustache. He wore a dinner-jacket with a large diamond in his shirtfront and the tarboosh of his country. He was exceedingly voluble, and the words tumbled out of his mouth tumultuously, like marbles out of a bag. He took pains to be extremely civil to Ashenden. The Prince sat in silence, looking at Ashenden quietly from under his heavy eyelids. He seemed shy.
“I have not seen you at the club, Monsieur,” said the Pasha. “Do you not like baccarat?”
“I play but seldom.”
“The baroness, who has read everything, tells me that you are a remarkable writer. Unfortunately I do not read English.”
The baroness paid Ashenden some very fulsome compliments, to which he listened with a proper and grateful politeness, and then, having provided her guests with coffee and liqueurs, she produced the cards. Ashenden could not but wonder why he had been asked to play. He had (he flattered himself) few illusions about himself, and so far as bridge was concerned none. He knew that he was a good player
