Complete weird tales of.., p.893
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 893
So they went in, one by one, very noiselessly, as though somebody had just died in there. But their entrance did not arouse Wildresse from his abstraction.
Two red-legged fantassins, with fixed bayonets and loaded rifles, stood behind him.
The man himself sat huddled on a chair in a corner, his great, blunt, murderous-looking hands hanging crossed between his knees, his big, hairless head of a butcher wagging slightly as though palsied.
There was not an atom of color left in his face, except for the pockmarks which were picked out in sickly greenish grey all over his flabby features.
He did not look up when they entered, his little, wicked black eyes, which had become dull and covered with a bluish glaze, remained fixed as though he were listening, and his heavy lower lip sagged.
“Wildresse,” said General Delisle.
There was no response; a soldier stirred the prisoner to attention with the butt of his piece.
“Stand up,” he said.
Wildresse, aroused, got to his great feet stupidly, looked around, caught sight of Philippa, and silently snarled — merely opened his mouth a little way till his upper lip curled back, emitting no sound whatever — then he caught sight of the green uniform of General Count Cassilis, and instantly the old glare blazed up in his eyes.
“By God, the Cossack!” he growled; and the heavy voice vibrated ominously through the room.
Warner led Philippa to a chair as General Delisle seated the Countess. Wildresse, his heavy arms hanging inert, stood looking from one man to another, as they found scats in turn, on sofas or on chairs — Delisle, Warner, Cassilis, Gray.
“Make your statement,” said General Delisle dryly. And he added: “If it is a long one, you may seat yourself.”
Wildresse shot a terrible look at the Russian Military Observer.
“For the last time,” he said hoarsely, “will you do something for me? ... For the last time?”
Cassilis lifted his expressive eyebrows and glanced rather wearily at Delisle.
“You know!” bellowed Wildresse in a sudden fury. “You know what I can say! If I say it, Russia and her allies will have an enemy instead of another ally! If I speak, your country will earn the contempt of France and of England too; and their implacable enmity after this war is ended. If I speak! Will you do something for me?”
Cassilis, polishing his monocle with a heavily scented handkerchief, shrugged.
“Very well!” roared Wildresse. “It is death, then, is it? You filthy, treacherous Cossack, I’ll do what I can to ruin you and your lying Government before I pass out! — You Moslem at heart — you bashi-bazouk — —”
“Moderate your voice and your manner!” said General Delisle very quietly.
Wildresse turned his great, hairless head; his face had become suddenly chalky again; he seated himself heavily; his big hands, doubled into fists, fell on either knee.
For a moment the slight, palsy-like movement of the head began again, the black eyes lost their luster, the heavy lip became pendulous. But he made an effort, and a change came over him; the muscles tightened visibly; he lifted the bulk of his great shoulders and sat erect, looking questioningly from one to another.
Then he began to speak without preamble, reciting his statement in an accentless, pedantic way which seemed to lend to what he said a somber sort of truth — the corroborative accuracy of unimaginative stupidity, which carries with it conviction to the minds of listeners.
He said:
“Count Cassilis knows. Like every Cossack he is at heart a Mussulman and a bashi-bazouk. Ask Enver Bey. He knows more than any white man, this Cassilis. He knows who sent the bashi-bazouks into the province of Philippopolis in ‘76, where half a hundred villages were burnt and twelve thousand Bulgarian men, women, and children were murdered. It was this man’s father who did that!”
“A lie,” remarked Cassilis, politely concealing a yawn. “General, if this rambling statement interests you — —”
“Pardon, Count — —” interposed Delisle, with cool courtesy. And to Wildresse: “Go on!”
Without even lifting his eyes, and as though he had been unconscious of the interruption, Wildresse went on reciting:
“It was the Sultan’s business — that affair in Bulgaria. Your father played double traitor; the Sultan never knew; the war provoked by Count Serge Cassilis followed; Russia beat Turkey into the mud and slush. Count Serge got double pay. Your Czar wanted Bulgaria to become a free state full of gratitude to Russia; and he tried to carry things with a high hand at San Stefano. You were not there! It was Count Serge. Where I first laid eyes on you, and you on me, was at Slivnitza. And after that I did your dirty jobs for you..... Very well; it warms up; Bulgaria becomes free — except she must tip her hat to the Sultan. Eh! You Russians didn’t like that! All the same, Bulgaria becomes free to choose and elect her own Prince. Only — she doesn’t want the Russian candidate — you!
“Alexander of Battenberg — Cousin of the Hesse Grand Duke — he was the first. Your Czar didn’t like him, eh? They made a god of him, didn’t they, in Sofia? And you Russians began to hate him. So did that rickety old gambler of Servia, King Milan. Who started that Servian fool after Alexander of Battenberg? And what did he get for his foolery? He got his empty head broken at Slivnitza — he and his swineherd army — kicked headlong through the Dragoman Pass! And that settled the Roumanian question. Eh? Swine and swineherd kicked into the lap of Holy Russia.... And yours was double pay!
“Then you came sneaking back into the scene, Count Cassilis. I did your filthy work for you. You taught me how double pay is earned!
“Prince Alexander of Battenberg was the idol of Bulgaria. I don’t know who gave you your orders, but I got mine from you! Was it Abdul Hamid — Abdul the Damned — who gave you your orders?
“Russian roubles paid me and the men I used. Maybe the Bank of Constantinople paid you.... And so we broke into his palace — the young prince Alexander’s — and carried him across the frontier. You sat on your big horse among your Cossacks and saw us bring the Prince of Bulgaria into Russia. And your pockets full of Turkish sweetmeats! — Like a prostitute!
“That time you meant murder; but others were afraid. Alexander of Battenberg was allowed to abdicate.
“Then, for the world, history went on to the summer of ‘87, when that Saxe-Coburg Prince was elected — Ferdinand, who now talks to himself for want of an audience, and who calls himself the Czar of all the Bulgars — he of the long nose and beard, and the eye of a wild pig.
“Russia pretended to hate him. Does she? You know!
“But history gives us only two Bulgarian princes from 1879 to 1915. How is that, Count Cassilis? Were there only two? — Alexander of Battenberg, whom you were afraid to murder, and this fat-jowled Ferdinand of today — —”
“The man is crazy, I think,” remarked Count Cassilis to the Countess.
Wildresse merely gazed at him out of lackluster eyes, and went on speaking with monotonous and terrible simplicity:
“History has lied to the world. There was another prince after Alexander. Every chancellery in Europe knows it, but never mentions it. A few others outside know it; you among others.... And I.
“England and France found him. The Templars of Tenedos were not all dead. The race of the hereditary Prince of Marmora was not extinct — the race of that man whose head Saladin cut off with his own hand — the race of Djani the Paladin, and of Raymond de Châtillon — the Princess of Marmora! England found him — Philip de Châtillon — and forced him on Russia and Germany and Austria in secret conference. The Porte promised assent; it had to. Before he was presented for election to the Bulgarian people — a matter of routine merely — he was crowned and consecrated, and you know it! He was already as truly the ruler of Bulgaria as your Czar is today of all the Russias. And you know that, too! And that time, whoever gave you your orders, and whatever they may have been, my orders from you spelled murder!”
There was a moment’s silence; Cassilis had turned his sneering, pallid face on Wildresse as though held by some subtle and horrible fascination, and he sat so, screwing up his golden mustache, his fishy blue eyes fixed, his lips as red as blood, and his wide, thin ears standing out translucent against the lighted lamp behind him.
Delisle, Warner, Gray, watched Wildresse with breathless attention; the Countess de Moidrey sat with Philippa’s hand in hers, staring at this man who was about to die, and who continued to talk.
Only Philippa’s face remained outwardly tranquil, yet she also was terribly intent upon what this man was now saying.
But Wildresse’s head began to wag again with the palsy-like movement; he muttered, half to himself:
“That’s how Philip de Châtillon died — Prince Philip of Bulgaria — that’s how he died — there in the palace with his young wife — the way they did for Draga, the Queen — and Milan’s son — the Servian swine who reigned before this old fighter, Peter! — You know, Count Cassilis! So do I — and Vasilief knew. We both knew because we did it for you — tore the bedclothes off — God! How that young man fought! We stabbed his red-haired wife first — but when we stretched that powerful young neck of his, the blood spouted to the ceiling — —”
The Countess made a gesture as though she were about to rise; Philippa’s hand crushed hers, drew her back.
“That’s how they died — those two young things in the bedroom of the Palace there.... I know what my orders were.... There was a child — a little girl six years old.... Vasilief went to the Ghetto and cut the throat of a six-year-old.... That’s what we buried with Prince Philip of Bulgaria and his wife.... I took the little Princess out of her bed and kept her for myself.... In case of trouble. Also, I thought she might mean money some day. I waited too long; it seems she was not worth killing — no use for blackmail. And the French Government wouldn’t listen, and the British were afraid to listen.... What’s proclaimed dead remains dead to Governments, even if they have to kill it again.
“That is my statement. Vasilief and I killed Prince Philip of Bulgaria, and his red-haired Princess, too.... In their bedroom at the Palace it was done.... But I took their little girl with me.... I had to knife Vasilief to do it. He wanted too much. I strangled him and turned my knife inside him — several times. And took the little girl away with me — the little six-year-old Princess Philippa — —” He lifted his heavy head and stared at Philippa: “There she sits!”
Philippa stood straight up, her grey eyes fixed on Wildresse in terrible concentration.
He wagged his head monotonously; a tic kept snatching at the upper lip, baring his yellow dog-teeth, so that he seemed to be laughing.
“There’s a bag full of the child’s clothing — your clothing — toys — photographs — God knows what. There’s a safe in the cellar of the Café Biribi. The fire won’t harm it. I kept the pieces of identification there — against a time of need. England wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t pay anything. France was afraid for her alliance. There was nothing in it for Germany. Russia shrugged and yawned — as you do, Count Cassilis — and then tried to kill me.
“As for the long-nosed wild pig of Bulgaria — do you think I had a chance with him? Not with Ferdy. Non pas! I couldn’t reach the people. That was the trouble. That is where I failed. Who would believe me without my pieces of identification? And I was afraid to take them into Sofia — afraid to cross the frontier with them — dared not even let France know I had them — or any other Power. They’d have had my throat cut for me inside of forty-eight hours! Eh, Cassilis? You know how it is done.... And that’s all.... They’ve burned the Café Biribi. But the safe is in the cellar.... I’ve done what I could to revenge myself on every side. I’ve sold France, sold Germany, sold Russia when I was able. Tell them that in Petrograd! I had no chance to sell England.... At first I never meant to harm the girl Philippa.... Philippa de Châtillon! Only when she turned on me, then I meant to twist her neck.... I waited too long, talked too much. That man — the Yankee, yonder — saved her neck for her — —”
His head was wagging by jerks; the tic stretched his loosened mouth, twitching it into awful and silent laughter, and the rictus mortis distorted his sagging features as the soldiers took him by both arms, shaking him into comprehension.
He shambled to his feet, looking at everybody and seeing nothing.
“Philippa de Châtillon, Princess of the Bulgars!” he mumbled.... “The girl Philippa, gentlemen, caissière de cabaret! ... Her father died by the Palace window, and her mother on the black marble floor! — Very young they were, gentlemen — very young.... And I think very much in love — —”
They took him out, still mumbling, the spasm playing and jerking at his sagging jaw.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE SUN WAS a crimson disk through the dust; a haze possessed the world; forest and hill, meadow and river, faded to phantoms in the unreal light.
The Château des Oiseaux was very quiet. General and staff had departed; sentries, telegraphers, wires, switchboard — the sky-guns on the northern terrace, the great racing automobiles, cyclists, motor cyclists, fantassins, cavalry — all were gone into the magic glory of the east.
The park was empty and still; only traces remained where green leaves curled up and grew brittle, and drooping boughs withered on rustic scaffoldings; where lawn and drive showed the fresh scars of wheels and hoofs; and where trusses of hay and straw and glistening heaps of spilled oats marked the abandoned lines.
So far to the north and east had the sound of cannon receded that only at intervals, when the wind was right, was it distinguishable at all as a soft, almost inaudible thudding along the horizon.
No gun shots troubled the August quiet; the shrill chirring of insects from every stubble field accentuated it.
Very few soldiers were to be seen; fantassins mounted guard by the pontoons; vedettes were visible along the river meadows and on the low hills beyond the Récollette. Patrols rode slowly on the Saïs highway; wagons still rolled eastward through the sunset light, or went into park in sheltered places; few cyclists went south, fewer still whizzed by into the north and east.
Just at sunset a squadron of hussars passed the lodge gate, walking their horses. An officer turned his mount, spurred through the open gate, and galloped up the drive to the Château.
He dismounted at the foot of the terrace; his horse stood, turning a beautiful, gentle head around toward the distant gate where his comrades were slowly passing.
His rider, mounting the terrace steps two at a time, encountered Madame de Moidrey and Warner, paid his respects almost breathlessly, but with perfect restraint of an impatience impossible to conceal.
“And Captain Halkett?” he inquired. “I hear that he was not injured when his biplane came down into the river?”
“He was stunned, that’s all,” said Warner quietly. “His mechanic was badly bruised, but not seriously. The plane is a wreck.”
The Vicomte d’Aurès stood a moment, twisting one glove between his fingers, then, with winning dignity, but turning very red, he said to the Countess:
“I have come also to make my adieux to — Peggy — if I have your permission — —”
The Countess nodded:
“She is in there.... You have my permission ... and approval.”
He saluted her hand very simply, straightened up, took faultless leave of Warner, turned, and entered the house. Peggy rose from the music stool and came toward him in the dim rose light. They met as naturally and unconsciously as two children; he took both her hands; she released them and drew them around his neck and laid her face against his breast.
They had only a few moments.
Ethra de Moidrey and Warner saw his departure from where they were strolling along the parapet of the lily garden. He left the park at a fast gallop, never turning to look back. Twilight swallowed the gallant, gay young figure. For a few moments the double gallop of hoofs sounded through the evening air, then died away.
The Countess, seated on the parapet, laid her hand appealingly on Warner’s sleeve:
“Jim, do you like him?”
“He’s all right, Ethra. If I had a younger brother I should wish him to be like that boy.”
“Yes.... He is nice.... He is going into battle.... That is hard.... Poor little Peggy. Womanhood comes swiftly when it comes, Jim. The reagent is sorrow. We all pass that way, we women. Sorrow is the philosopher’s stone.... Else we remain only children until we die.”
Warner gazed at the dusty glory still glowing above the western hills:
“What a day it has been!” he murmured.
“God guide those men who are riding into the east,” said she. “What a strange day it has been, Jim! Did you understand that painful incident between General Delisle and General Count Cassilis?”
“Perfectly. The Russian Military Observer was given his congé. Did you not see what happened? The rattle of the volley that ended Wildresse meant also the end of the world for Count Cassilis.
“I saw General Delisle walk across the terrace and say something to Cassilis in a low voice. I saw the Russian’s face. It was like death. The end was also in sight for him. He knew it. He knew what his dismissal from French division headquarters meant. He knew he must go home. He knew that his arrest would follow the instant he set foot across the frontier of his own Empire.
“But his good manners did not desert him. You saw him take his leave, stiff, correct, calm as though the ceremony meant nothing to him except familiar routine.
“There was no exchange of handclasps, nothing of cordiality, merely the faultless observance of convention. Then he went away.”
“He is a traitor?” she asked, in an awed voice.
“Undoubtedly. Think what it has meant — think what it would have meant to this army if his treachery had not been discovered! — A spy at headquarters! But his own Emperor will punish him. As surely as I stand here, Ethra, that man is doomed to die on the scaffold. He knows it.... Did you notice him light a cigarette when he got into his limousine? I could not keep my eyes off him — that man already practically dead — that traitor impassively saluting the hussars’ fanion as his automobile rolled by! And even while I looked at him I seemed to see him suspended there in his shroud, a dead weight on the gibbet, turning gently in the morning breeze — God! The fellow got on my nerves! — Knowing the guilt that lay black within him — the murders in Sofia — —”
