XII LA BELLE HéLèNE

On strange and brittle threads hang the apples of fate. Hélène Wass had matured her plan for the following Wednesday night. Like all plans promising success, it was very simple. She divined Ordham’s nervous dread of finding himself alone with her, but parties at her house were always gay, and he was ever more than willing to be amused. She invited him to dinner “to meet a party of friends from Vienna who were giving her a night on their way to Paris.” Upon arrival he would discover that the party had disappointed her, but he could not well refuse to eat her dinner; nor could he run away immediately after. The Herr Geheimrath never graced these late dinners of his wife, adhering stoutly to the heavy midday meal of his ancestors, and partaking of a Spartan supper of eggs, cold ham, sausage, tongue, salad, and comp?te at six o’clock. At eight he was slumbering peacefully. The dainty French repast finished, Hélène would sing in her boudoir,—all the newest, gayest songs,—until Ordham’s apprehensions, if he cherished any, were lulled, and he had made himself too comfortable to think of moving before eleven o’clock, at least. Then she would confide to him a long list of new indignities, visited upon her by Munich society and her old husband, gradually working herself up into a mighty passion—no difficult matter at any time—and when, in a climax of uncontrollable excitement, she had flung herself into his arms, her faithful maid, having awakened the virtuous Geheimrath, would usher him in at precisely the right moment and exhibit the scandalous tableau. She would shriek and sob and plead for forgiveness, which, she well knew, would never kindle in that flabby mass of vanity, shocked out of the fatuousness of a lifetime. Ordham, of course, would not plead his innocence, and when she cowered to the floor, wailing that now indeed all the world was against her, he would walk over and take his place at her side. There would be no duel, for the Herr Geheimrath had chronic rheumatism in his right shoulder, and she would leave Munich with the young Englishman at eight o’clock on the following morning.

She had not the least doubt that, given conditions as she planned them, Ordham would go with her, and that between sympathy and Italy—her villa was romantically situated in the Alban Hills—she could persuade him that he loved the dainty versatile charming creature who had sacrificed the world for his sake. And, it may be, the vanity of youth being very great indeed, she would continue to win in the uneven game.

Hélène Wass was as clever as only a subtle unscrupulous highly seasoned European can be. She belonged to a class that responds automatically to the intrigues hatched under thrones and disseminated to the outposts of society; in whose brains are dark and tortuous recesses furrowed by generations of ancestors that have lied and schemed for royal favour; and what birth had not given her, she had industriously colonized in the rich soil of her brain for twenty years.

But the cleverest of mere mortals, even the wise old statesman at the helm, is unable to see far into that dense belt just beyond his horizon, can but guess at the forces generating there. Hélène Wass’s inimical forces were trivial, almost ridiculous, but less have wrecked life and reputation.

She had written a month since to her Parisian milliners to set to work on her summer trousseau at once, for even then she had contemplated a house party in her Italian villa, where Ordham would find it difficult to dodge her. On the day of their apparent reconciliation she telegraphed orders that it be sent at once. If delivered to her in Munich, her husband must pay the bill, to say nothing of the duties. Munich had denounced her extravagance as regularly as the seasons called their attention to it; but she was, in truth, a thrifty creature, and had kept her own inheritance, capital and income, intact. The Italian villa was her only personal extravagance, and Wass supported that. This trousseau, in spite of letters and telegrams, was unaccountably delayed. Go without it she would not, and not only for economical reasons, but because it was already hot in Italy, and she depended in no small measure upon these exquisite diaphanous garments for the ultimate conquest of her observing young lover.

It had been a mere chance that had taken Ordham on the Isar that night, or, to speak by the book, an undetected chain of circumstances. Paddling on the river in the city limits was a privilege granted to few, but a friend of Ordham, Count Kilchberg, whose garden sloped to the banks, had long since invited him to use a boat whenever he chose; and on the night when he had so unpremeditatedly won the friendship of Margarethe Styr, he had, after excusing himself from a dinner where he was likely to meet Frau von Wass, suddenly bethought himself of this novel and congenial way of passing the evening.

The trousseau arrived on Monday, and, still unpacked, was ready to be spirited out of the house by the annoyed but acquisitive Lotte, who, as a guardian of secrets and a surgeon of obstacles, received a salary rather than a wage, and was meditating respectable matrimony at no distant date. Lotte, although profoundly indifferent to moral lapses, did not like Italy and was in love with a valet de chambre in the Residenz. She was in a bad humour at the proposed flight, but dared not forsake her mistress, who, beyond question, would give her a wedding present. On Tuesday morning the Herr Geheimrath suddenly took it into his fussy old head to go to Berlin and attend a scientific conference. He invited Hélène to accompany him, and she screamed her refusal, almost beside herself. Assuming that she was merely more nervous than usual, he departed in haste, promising to bring her a present, and to return in the course of ten days; he needed a little vacation and should see many of his old friends.

She spent the greater part of Tuesday in bed, after her fashion when her astonished ego was forced to admit that there were conflicting egos in the world which her stupid patron saint went to sleep and forgot. She wept, she had hysterics, she bit several handkerchiefs to pieces, she tormented herself with visions of Ordham’s sudden recall to England before her husband’s return; finally, in a flash of blinding light, saw him infatuated with Margarethe Styr. That cordial hand-shake, that unstereotyped smile, had meant something from the woman who would have the world believe that she dwelt on a pedestal—in a niche—with a curtain in front of her. Ordham, true to his temperament, had not mentioned his meeting with Styr at Neuschwanstein, but Hélène knew of the visit, and leaped at conclusions not far from the truth. Of course he was fascinated, no doubt was talking Wagner (they were sure to begin on Wagner) with her at that very moment.

She sprang out of bed and ordered her victoria brought round in an hour. She must have movement, diversion, or her mind would become so inflamed that she could not plan, and a new plan was imperative, unless, indeed, she found the self-control to await her husband’s return.

It was a cold spring with occasional warm days. Lotte, anxious to shake out one of the new gowns, expatiated upon the weather. Frau von Wass, soothed by the thought that she could always command the envy of Munich, permitted herself to be arrayed in a gown and hat designed to make its wearer look as like a butterfly as a mere mortal can. The parasol, the slippers and stockings, the gloves and handkerchief, assisted to transform her into at least the Parisian she loved to be mistaken for, and she forgot her woes for an hour in the delight of showing herself. But she by no means forgot Ordham and directed her coachman to drive in the Englischergarten, where he occasionally strolled with Kilchberg and other friends. The beautiful day had brought out all Munich, driving, riding, walking; the great park was filled with good-natured saunterers, many of whom stared in open admiration, amazement, or disapproval at the dazzling vision behind the liveries of the excellent Geheimrath Wass.

But she saw nothing of the young Englishman. She ordered her coachman to leave the park by the Schwabing entrance and drive to the tennis court on the other side of the village. This was a sacred enclosure, which, with all her social adroitness and her husband’s popularity, she had never penetrated. Reserved in the first instance for the young and active members of the House of Wittelsbach, poverty in numbers had forced them to open the gates to the embassies and legations, as well as to the older families of the Bavarian aristocracy. Ordham had been admitted to this club as a matter of course, and tennis being the only form of exercise that he tolerated, he was an expert player, and might be seen at the courts four or five times a week.

To-day, the air being charged with the elixir of spring, he was frisking about like a kitten; and the sight not only made Hélène Wass pale with fury, but induced a spasm of bitter despair. It was manifest that nothing in him but his youth, his incontrovertible youth, was sentient. What cared this buoyant healthy young Englishman for the pleasures of the intellect, for impending examinations, the momentous question of career? What cared he for Life, its problems, its tragic females? They were non-existent, as was proper at his age, and his blood was sweeping from his heels to his head in exultant waves, his lungs were full of oxygen, and he was winning his game.

He made her feel old, forlorn, remember that whether she captured and held him or not there was one of life’s gates to which she had lost the key. That belonged to other young people like himself. True, she could play tennis, and a very good game, but she could not abandon herself to it, and that was the whole point.

Then, for the first time, she lost her head. She had imposed a severe strain upon her excitable spoilt temper in disciplining herself for a week. The prospect of ten days more, during which she must still control herself, play the r?le of the arch indulgent friend, when she was devoured by at least four different passions, abruptly declared itself beyond her powers of endurance. The game of tennis finished, she sent her footman to Ordham with an imperious summons. He came reluctantly, for he intended to play another game at once.

“Come with me!” she exclaimed below her breath. “You must! you must! The most dreadful thing has happened, and you are my only friend. I must talk to you.”

Wondering what dreadful fate could menace any one so carefully and exquisitely arrayed, but recalling that he had practically engaged himself to stand by her for a fortnight, he sent the footman for his coat and entered the victoria. She waved her hand in the direction of the Englischergarten, and ten minutes later, leaving the carriage at the opening of a secluded path in the woods, she led Ordham along the romantic windings of the Isar. When they were out of earshot, she suddenly caught him by the shoulders and brought her morbid excited little face close to his.

“Johann! Johann!” she gasped. (She spoke English perfectly.) “Take me away! Fritz suspects—he threatened this morning to kill me. He has gone to Berlin. It is only a ruse! He will return suddenly, hoping to entrap me—”

“But he cannot.” Ordham recalled some of her recent lies, and felt the necessity of keeping his head clear. “I will even stay away from your house. Then, what danger?”

“Oh, you don’t understand! It is the knowledge of the sword that hangs over my head. If he came back suddenly and discovered nothing immediate, it would make him the more furious. He would ferret out other things.”

“I don’t think he could.” But his blood congealed, and he wondered if it were the damp woodland after his hour of tennis. That this would be an excellent excuse for illness on the morrow cheered him somewhat, and he said with his exquisite gentle courtesy:

“I am sure that you are agitating yourself for nothing. But could we not talk it over to-morrow? I feel that I am getting a chill—I have not had a shower and rub down, you know, and this enchanting nook is rather like a new-made grave. You know how easily I take cold.”

“I don’t believe you ever had a cold in your life,” she screamed. “In those flannels you look like a pink baby that hasn’t cut its teeth. You shall listen to me, and if you write me to-morrow that you are ill I’ll go to the Legation.”

“Oh, for your own sake, don’t do that.”

“I’m beyond caring for appearances. If Fritz discovers that I love you, will he not divorce me? What matter if Munich cut me first? I know now that is what they expect Fritz to do. Some one of them has told him. My life here is rushing to a climax. It is only a question of days when I shall be cast out for every she-wolf—led by Princess Nachmeister—to set her teeth in my flesh.”

Ordham, colder each moment, stared at the ground with blanching face. He recalled the discreet hint of Excellenz. And if she knew, why not others? He wondered somewhat at Munich’s sudden access of virtue, then remembered its deathless intolerance of the outsider. Might it not be true that this poor woman—he had never seen any one look so weak and helpless, as she wrung her hands and stared into vacancy—was about to be publicly disgraced on his account? He turned faint and sick at the burden cast upon his unwilling shoulders, but he made up his mind to temporize until the last moment.

Her eyes dismissed their fixed stare and met his in an agony of appeal. So may martyrs have looked when beholding the torch approach the fagots.

“Ah!” she wailed softly. “If you but loved me! Then it would not matter. My villa in Italy! We could be so happy. In Italy nothing matters. And by and by all would be forgotten. You are of the elect, and to them all things are forgiven. But you hate me! You hate me!”

“How can you say such a thing? You have taken away my breath. You suggest enchanting possibilities, but we must both take more time to think. And I really must leave this damp spot. It is dangerous for us both. If you have not come to the conclusion by to-morrow that your fears are exaggerated, we will talk it over. Shall we meet here?”

“Will you swear not to send me word that you are ill?”

“Of course.”

“Then come to the house. I shall receive you in the salon. If we sit in the middle of the room no one can overhear a word we say, and did Fritz return suddenly no situation could disconcert him more. Whereas, did we meet here—and were followed—how do I not know that the footman was not told to spy?—yes! Let us go—now—quickly!”

She hastened out of the grove, but at the end of the path paused abruptly. “I must walk!” she announced. “I shall dismiss the carriage. It is better, too, that you should walk.”

“Very well.” He resigned himself to another tête-à-tête. The park was nearly deserted. They walked along the outer carriage drive. He endeavoured to divert her mind. He might as well have attempted to dam a flood with his hands. She had reached that pitch of nerves which must find relief in a torrent of words or in hysterics. Her maid would soon be methodically administering sedatives; and meanwhile Ordham was forced to listen to a tirade against Wass, Munich, and her thrice unhappy fate in loving a man who, for worldly reasons, would not permit himself to return her love, hesitated to fly to a Paradise in Italy lest a few ridiculous people cut him for six months. He was appalled at the strength of the woman’s passion, and distracted at the thought of the possible consequences. No longer could he cheat himself with the delusion that she had transmuted her love into friendship, that she would open her net after the fashion of sensible women of the world when the captive began to flutter. For once his diplomatic instinct was at a loss. Again he felt that events were rushing too quickly for him, and he had not the least idea what to do.

Thus it happened that Margarethe Styr, seated in the curtained depths of her tower, that she might amuse herself with glimpses of the world she so seldom cared to enter, sat up suddenly and gazed hard at a voluble white reckless woman dressed like a butterfly, and a dejected young cavalier in flannels. She had heard no gossip of these two, but this vision, linked with his similar appearance when leaving the house of the same woman a few days before and his careless nod on the night of the Nachmeister concert, told the story. Countess Tann concerned herself not in the least with the affairs of others, and it is probable that if she had not met Ordham a second time, she merely would have smiled half in pity, half in scorn, at the eternal folly of young men, as manifested in this moving tableau. But she had unbent to him even at Neuschwanstein, far more on that night when he had leaped through this window to her rescue. And to no one else in eight years had she given the least of herself. That alone entitled him to a unique place in her regard; and to refrain from some degree of personal interest in so sympathetic a creature she had discovered to be impossible. Moreover, in spite of the remodelling of character effected by that strong brain and will, there was no lack of plain female in Margarethe Styr. She determined then and there, not only to save this charming young man from the toils of an unscrupulous siren, but to indulge in the pleasure of outwitting another woman. She knew enough of Hélène Wass to conclude that her life had reached a desperate climax which threatened danger to the man that had magnetized the remnant of her youth. As she rose and went upstairs to dress for supper, she felt even more stimulated than when about to engage in a round with the opera-house cabal.