There was no Poland. At this moment Wanda burst upon him, so to speak, with a hundred desires that only he could fulfil, a hundred questions that only he could answer. And, as wise persons know, to fulfil desires and answer questions is the best happiness.
Father and daughter lived a quiet life in the house that was called a palace by courtesy only. For Martin was made of livelier stuff, and rarely stayed long at home. He came and went with a feverish haste; was fond of travel, he said, and the authorities kept a questioning eye upon his movements.
There are two doors to the Bukaty Palace. As often as not, Martin made use of the smaller door giving entrance to the garden at the back of the house, which garden could also be entered from an alley leading round from the back of the bank, which stands opposite the post-office in the busier part of Kotzebue Street.
He came in by this door one evening and did not come alone, for he was accompanied by a man in working-clothes. The streets of Warsaw are well lighted and well guarded by a most excellent police, second only as the Russians are to the police of London. It is therefore the custom to go abroad at night as much as in the day, and the Krakowski is more crowded after dark than during the afternoon. Kosmaroff had walked some distance behind Prince Martin in the streets. Martin unlocked the gate of the garden and passed in, leaving the gate open with the key in the lock. In a minute Kosmaroff followed, locked the gate after him, and gave the key back to its owner on the steps of the garden door of the house, where Martin was awaiting him, latchkey in hand. They did it without comment or instruction, as men carry out a plan frequently resorted to.
Martin led the way into the house, along a dimly lighted corridor, to a door which stood ajar. Outside the night was cold; within were warmth and comfort. Martin went into the long room. At the far end, beneath the lamp and near an open wood fire, the prince and Wanda were sitting. They were in evening dress, and the prince was dozing in his chair.
“I have brought Kos to see you,” said Martin, and, turning, he looked towards the door. The convict’s son, the convict, came forward with that ease which, to be genuine, must be quite unconscious. He apparently gave no thought to his sandy and wrinkled top-boots, from which the original black had long since been washed away by the waters of the Vistula. He wore his working-clothes as if they were the best habit for this or any other palace. He took Wanda’s hand and kissed it in the old-world fashion, which has survived to this day in Poland. But the careless manner in which he raised her fingers to his lips would have showed quite clearly to a competent observer that neither Wanda nor any other woman had ever touched his heart.
“You will excuse my getting up,” said the prince. “My gout is bad tonight. You will have something to eat?”
“Thank you, I have eaten,” replied Kosmaroff, drawing forward a chair.
Martin put the logs together with his foot, and they blazed up, lighting with a flickering glow the incongruous group.
“He will take a glass of port,” said the prince, turning to Wanda, and indicating the decanter from which, despite his gout, he had just had his after-dinner wine.
Wanda poured out the wine and handed it to Kosmaroff, who took it with a glance and a quick smile of thanks, which seemed to indicate that he was almost one of the family. And, indeed, they were closely related, not only in the present generation, but in bygone days. For Kosmaroff represented a family long since deemed extinct.
“I have come,” he said, “to tell you that all is safe. Also to bid you goodbye. As soon as I can get employment I shall go down to Thorn to stir them up there. They are lethargic at Thorn.”
“Ah!” laughed the prince, moving his legs to a more comfortable position, “you young men! You think everybody is lethargic. Don’t move too quickly. That is what I always preach.”
“And we are ready enough to listen to your preaching,” answered Kosmaroff. “You will admit that I came here tonight in obedience to your opinion that too much secrecy is dangerous because it leads to misunderstandings. Plain speaking and clear understanding was the message you sent me—the text of your last sermon.”
With his quick smile Kosmaroff touched the rim of the prince’s wineglass, which stood at his elbow, and indicated by a gesture that he drank his health.
“That was not my text—that was Wanda’s,” answered the prince.
“Ah!” said Kosmaroff, looking towards Wanda. “Is that so? Then I will take it. I believe in Wanda’s views of life. She has a vast experience.”
“I have been to Dresden and to London,” answered Wanda, “and a woman always sees much more than a man.”
“Always?” asked Kosmaroff, with his one-sided smile.
“Always.”
But Kosmaroff had turned towards the prince in his quick, jerky way.
“By-the-way,” he asked, “what is Cartoner doing in Warsaw?”
“Cartoner—the Englishman who speaks so many languages? We met him in London,” answered the prince. “Who is he? Why should he not be here?”
“I will tell you who he is,” answered Kosmaroff, with a sudden light in his eyes. “He is the man that the English send when they suspect that something is going on which they can turn to good account. He has a trick of finding things out—that man. Such is his reputation, at all events. Paul Deulin is another, and he is here. He is a friend of yours, by-the-way; but he is not dangerous, like Cartoner. There is an American here, too.
