IX EXCELLENZ, THE POTTER

The next morning he was rejoiced by the news that Fr?ulein Lutz was confined to the house by a severe katarrh, and he remained in bed until twelve, meditating upon the position in which he found himself. He had slept well—nothing had ever kept him awake—and he discovered that refreshed by sleep and coffee, to say nothing of the brilliant sunlight streaming over his bed, he hated his friends less than he had supposed the night before. He would be managed by nobody, but women were born matchmakers; it was not an unamiable vice; why should he resent their efforts in his behalf? He had not the least apprehension of being married against his will, and the painful picture of Fr?ulein von Schmidt no longer maddened him. Last night he had felt almost trapped, so communicable had been the excitement of that poor little woman.

He endeavoured to analyze his feeling for Frau von Wass. (He had never called her Hélène even in his thoughts.) Could it be that he was really fond of her? Certainly his soul had risen in arms last night as she poured out her wrongs, passionately dwelt upon her isolation. “With all the world against her.” It was a phrase to affect any man with a rag of feeling in him.

Unconsciously he shook his head. He was not in love with her. On that point at least he was quite clear. But he was uneasily sensible that events might rush too rapidly for his guidance. Were she ostracized on his account, cast out, perhaps, by an infuriated husband, there was no folly that he might not be induced to commit, particularly when his family combined in opposition. Although he had no suspicion of the plot hatching by Frau von Wass, a new light rose in his mind and played about the dangers of inspiring such a woman with a desperate passion. It is true that she had announced her complete recovery, but her eyes had betrayed her last night; moreover, he could not doubt that she had made a deliberate appeal to his pity, his tenderness, his humanity. Could it be that she wanted to elope with him? He broke into a cold perspiration. A moment later he was out of bed and writing her a note protesting that he was too ill to call on her that afternoon; he was really in a pitiable condition and must break all his engagements. Would she forgive him and let him call the instant he was presentable? Perhaps she would honour him at a little dinner he intended to give during the following week at one of the restaurants? Which did she prefer? And would Friday suit her? He would speak to Princess Nachmeister as soon as he could get out.

The Wass disposed of for at least three days, he shoved the memory of her into one of those wonderful water-tight compartments of his brain, and, returning to the pleasant places, met Margarethe Styr. Whether he wanted to know any woman again well he was not sure, but his experience of this isolated creature on the strange night of their meeting gave him hope that she had outlived the vanities and follies of her sex. He wondered that a woman to whom the fiery furnace of life had left no precipitation but mind could retain so much of feminine charm. Or was it but the magnetism of a strong brain, with the sauce piquante of fine manners? It would be worth while to discover. No beauty, so far, had appealed to his senses as odd and complex personalities did to his cool analytical brain. And how delightful even the occasional companionship of such a woman might be! Yes, he would know her if he could.

He did not care to call and run the risk of being turned from her door, but after the deliberate compliment she had paid him he felt at liberty to write and crave admittance. He was very guarded in expressing himself, for he had all a young man’s sensitive fear of being laughed at by a woman so much older in years and in life; the enterprises of blasée women of the world, and mothers with marriageable daughters, while they had augumented a self-confidence as inevitable as his grammar, had not disposed of his natural modesty.

He sent the note by a messenger, but no reply came until the following morning. It was very brief.

“Dear Mr. Ordham: I have hesitated a long time—but it is better not. Friends are not for me. I shall not even go into society again for a long while. Think of me as a stage creature only. And after all, I am nothing else.

“Margarethe Tann.”

This put Ordham into such a villanous humour that he went out and lunched alone.

“Does she think that I want to make love to her?” He addressed the dinner (alas! not luncheon), which was very bad. “Little she knows! And whoever would be the wiser if I called out there occasionally? Or is she merely trying to intriguer me? Is it that inflexible principle of sex which will not let a man go in peace, but must hold him in the toils even while denying him the little he asks? Or does she fear to step down from her pedestal? Well, I’ll think no more about her. I hate them all.”

He returned to the Legation in time for coffee, and to help Mr. Trowbridge entertain several pretty women that had lunched there. Later he called at the Nachmeister Palast, sure of not meeting Frau von Wass; she, with many another, never entered the gates save when bidden to a function. Several old ladies were taking tea with Excellenz, and they increased our hero’s ill humour by their maternal petting, for he was almost as tired of being mothered as of being made love to. Nachmeister’s sole charm was her entire indifference to his health and his emotions.

When the women had gone, she invited him into her famous porcelain boudoir, where the walls were made up of innumerable panels painted by a disciple of Watteau, the windows and chairs covered with fading brocades; and exhibited a photograph of Mabel Cutting that had arrived in the morning mail. Of the note enclosed by the young beauty’s mamma, the wise old diplomatist said nothing.

“Is she not lovely?”

Ordham scowled at the picture. “All American girls look alike. I saw them by wholesale in Paris.”

“I do not pretend to vie with such experience, but, myself, I never saw anything so lovely as Mabel. Leaning on that railing, she looks like The Blessed Damozel. But it should be painted. Of course it gives no idea of her exquisite colouring—pink and white and gold and brown. And such soft pathetic eyes!” The Nachmeister looked almost sad.

“Those fluffy American beauties are passée at twenty-five. I like women to be handsome at forty—as our women are,” he hastened to add.

“Of course, mon enfant. At your age the woman of forty, or a little less, nicht? is part of Life’s curriculum. So is the unhappy wife who wants sympathy—and all the rest of them. Fortunately there are the Mabel Cuttings to marry.”

“Is she being trotted out for my inspection?”

“What if she were? Do you fancy that you can ever do better? Youth, beauty, gentle blood, millions—and you merely look bored? I have no patience with you.”

“I am in no hurry to marry.”

“But one day you must—is it not so? I can speak plainly, for I am an old woman of the world that has grown fond of you, and there is no mystery about you whatever. Inheritance to the titles and estates of your family is by no means assured, at best is remote. You are entering one of the most expensive of careers and your habits are extravagant. Your income is small and your brother miserly. So do not be the baby you sometimes look and are not, and give Mabel Cutting a definite place in your calculations.”

“What has she in her own right?”

“Eight or ten millions—dollars, of course. Forty million marks! Ach Gott! I have known Adela Cutting for twenty years. There is no doubt whatever that her husband’s fortune was one of the largest in America; and I remember perfectly the account of his death and will. There were no other heirs.”

“What of this plot to marry me to the daughter of Herr von Schmidt?”

“What?” The Nachmeister’s astonishment was manifestly genuine.

“I heard—well, it is not worth talking about.”

“I should think not. Marie Schmidt! You! Her silly mother has never put stays on her and she will have a Munich waist in three years. And her complexion, her manners—but it does not matter. I happen to know that she is to marry her cousin, Heinrich Krauss. Schmidt means to keep the money in the family. Who could have started such a report?”

“Oh, one hardly knows where one hears such things.”

“Another time come to me at once with any little rumours that put you out of temper, and I will tell you if they are correct or not. There are no secrets in Munich from me. I may keep them, but I know them.”

“May I borrow this photograph?” Ordham looked as innocent as Moses in the bulrushes.

“You may have it—and the original, no doubt, if you are clever enough. But to tell you the truth, I do not know whether she retains her interest in you or not. It was evident enough when she was here; but maids as well as men are fickle.”

Ordham enthroned the photograph on his writing table. He even began a letter to Mrs. Cutting. But he could think of no excuse that would cover his long negligence, and after dreaming over his pen for a while he put it aside until a more fertile moment. But fate pursued its even way and drove Mabel Cutting far from his mind.