“It was odd that I should meet you at that moment,” he said, at length, for Netty had not attempted to break the silence. She never took the initiative with Paul Deulin, but followed quite humbly and submissively the conversational lead which he might choose to give. He broke off and laughed. “I was going to say that it was odd that I should have met you at a moment that I was thinking of you; but it would be odder still if I could manage to meet you at a moment when I was not thinking of you, would it not?”
“It was very kind of you,” said Netty, “to think of me at the race-meeting the other day, and to introduce me to the Bukatys. I am so interested in the princess. She is so pretty, is she not? Such lovely hair, and I think her face is so interesting—a face with a history, is it not?”
“Yes,” answered Deulin, rather shortly, “Wanda is a nice girl.” He did not seem to find the subject pleasing, and Netty changed her ground.
“And the prince,” she said, “the old one, I mean—for this one, Prince Martin, is quite a boy, is he not?”
“Oh yes—quite a boy,” replied Deulin, absently, as he looked back over his shoulder and saw Martin hurry into the flower-shop where he had first perceived Netty and the young prince talking together.
“It is so sad that they are ruined—if they are really ruined.”
“There is no doubt whatever about that,” answered Deulin.
“But,” said Netty, who was practical, “could nothing induce him—the young prince, I mean—to abandon all these vague political dreams and accept the situation as it is, and settle down to develop his estates and recover his position?”
“You mean,” said Deulin, “the domestic felicities. Your fine and sympathetic heart would naturally think of that. You go about the world like an unemployed and wandering angel, seeking to make the lives of others happier. Those are dreams, and in Poland dreams are forbidden—by the Czar. But they are the privilege of youth, and I like to catch an occasional glimpse of your gentle dreams, my dear young lady.”
Netty smiled a little pathetically, and glanced up at him beneath her lashes, which were dark as lashes should be that veil violet eyes.
“Now you are laughing at me, because I am not clever,” she said.
“Heaven forbid! But I am laughing at your dream for Martin Bukaty. He will never come to what you suggest as the cure for his unsatisfactory life. He has too much history behind him, which is a state of things never quite understood in your country, mademoiselle. Moreover, he has not got it in him. He is not stable enough for the domestic felicities, and Siberia—his certain destination—is not a good mise-en-scène for your dream. No, you must not hope to do good to your fellow-beings here, though it is natural that you should seek the ever-evasive remedy—another privilege of youth.”
“You talk as if you were so very old,” said Netty, reproachfully.
“I am very, very old,” he replied, with a laugh. “And there is no remedy for that. Even your kind heart can supply no cure for old age.”
“I reserve my charity and my cures for really deserving cases,” answered Netty, lightly. “I think you are quite capable of taking care of yourself.”
“And of evolving my own dreams?” he inquired. But she made no answer, and did not appear to notice the glance of his tired, dark eyes.
“I know so little,” she said, after a pause, “so very little of Poland or Polish history. I suppose you know everything—you and Mr. Cartoner?”
“Oh, Cartoner! Yes, he knows a great deal. He is a regular magazine of knowledge, while I—I am only a little stall in Vanity Fair, with everything displayed to the best advantage in the sunshine. Now, there is a life for you to exercise your charity upon. He is brilliantly successful, and yet there is something wanting in his life. Can you not prescribe for him?”
Netty smiled gravely.
“I hardly know him sufficiently well,” she said. “Besides, he requires no sympathy if it is true that he is the heir to a baronetcy and a fortune.”
Deulin’s eyebrows went up into his hat, and he made, for his own satisfaction, a little grimace of surprise.
“Ah! is that so?” he inquired. “Who told you that?”
But Netty could not remember where she had heard what she was ready to believe was a mere piece of gossip. Neither did she appear to be very interested in the matter.
XVIII
Joseph’s Story
Mr. Mangles gave a dinner-party the same evening. “It is well,” he had said, “to show the nations that the great powers are in perfect harmony.” He made this remark to Deulin and Cartoner, whom he met at the Cukiernia Lourse—a large confectioner’s shop and teahouse in the Krakow Faubourg—which is the principal café in Warsaw. And he then and there had arranged that they should dine with him.
“I always accept the good Mangles’ invitations. Firstly, I am in love with Miss Cahere. Secondly, Julia P. Mangles amuses me consumedly. In her presence I am dumb. My breath is taken away. I have nothing to say. But afterwards, in the night, I wake up and laugh into my pillow. It takes years off one’s life,” said Deulin, confidentially, to Cartoner, as they sipped their tea when Mr. Joseph P. Mangles had departed.
As Deulin was staying under the same roof he had only to descend from the second to the first floor, when the clock struck seven. By some chance he was dressed in good time, and being an idle person, with a Gallic love of street-life, he drew back his curtain, and stood at the window waiting for the clock to strike.
“I shall perhaps see the heir to the baronetcy arrive,” he said to himself, “and we can make our entry
